The Colors of Fire
by Belfast Docks
Summary: Two years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbott's paths cross, as each is in the process of planning their futures. Rated M; canon pairings. Originally posted on the HP fan fiction site "Checkmated" in 2008. Transferring here to maintain.
1. The Unexpected Wayward Traveler

**Author's Note:** This was actually the first _Harry Potter_ fanfic I wrote, waaaaaaay back in 2008 (_egads_). I'm kind of wary to even admit that. It was originally posted on the _Harry Potter_ fanfiction site "Checkmated", which is still sporadically online but no longer updated or maintained. The more I went back and looked at this multi-chapter fic, the less thrilled I was at the storyline or my writing, and I had decided not to transfer it to ffnet. However, I had a request for it to be archived here, so I decided to rework it a bit and repost it. It is complete; it's just a matter of me cleaning, editing, and rewriting each chapter. Which is going pretty fast, considering my usual time...

**Thanks to:** TheGiantSquid, who was the original beta for this piece on _Checkmated_; and to RiennaHawkes, the amazing author who asked me if I was going to transfer _CoF_ here to ffnet. (If you haven't read RH's amazing works, you should seriously go do so. One of my absolute favorite fan fictions EVER is her _Buried Treasure_ multi-chapter.)

**Pairing:** Cannon, specifically Neville Longbottom x Hannah Abbott.

**Rating: M** (For erotic situations & nudity, but no actual descriptions of sex.)

**Title:** The Colors of Fire

* * *

**The Unexpected Wayward Traveler**

* * *

It was 2:50 in the morning, and Hannah Abbott had to admit that the sudden, hard pounding on the front door of her pub was a bit unnerving. It was a wonder she'd heard it at all; now that she was properly awake, she hadn't the foggiest how she'd managed to drift off to sleep in the first place, what with the rain, thunder, and wind howling furiously outside.

The last of her patrons had left just after midnight, mostly due to this unexpected storm, and she had bolted the doors soundly, as per her usual before going to bed. Perhaps this was just another wayward traveler needing a night's lodging, but even after six months of owning the historic Leaky Cauldron Pub, Hannah still hadn't gotten used to the idea of waking up in the dead of the night to let unknown wizards and witches into her establishment.

Groggily, she stumbled as quickly as she could down the narrow stairs, nearly tripping over her dressing gown as she tied the sash around her waist on the way, and cursing under her breath when one of her fuzzy slippers fell off and she had to find it before going into the pub.

It was dark in the main room; she could barely make out the tables as she pointed her wand at an oil lamp behind the bar. It flared to life, casting a dark glow around it that did not reach far enough for Hannah's immediate comfort. The pounding rang out once more, and now she could hear the shouts — a man's voice, yelling for her to open the door — _and he used her name_.

Her eyes widened as she ran across the room, bumping into a stray chair. There was a small explosion in the street — she recognized it immediately as a spell. She pointed her wand at the door, wordlessly unsealing the magical locks, and it sprang open.

Instantly, the wind roared louder and she had to throw her hand up over her face to shield it from the rain that came pouring into the Leaky Cauldron in dark, silvery-black sheets. Squinting, she could just make out two men; one was standing, supporting the second, who hung limply over the first's arm. Another spell exploded in a flash of bright red light, and Charing Cross came into grisly relief. The man glanced over his shoulder as she moved forward, her wand ready and her eyes wide with fear.

"_Hannah_! Get him! I can't hold him much longer!"

The second figure stirred slightly and moaned; another spell went off and the first man yelled, "_Protego_!" A glittering shield burst before him and the curse backfired on someone Hannah couldn't make out, on the opposite side of the road.

As she ran the last few steps to the threshold, the rain soaked her face, her hands, and her robe. The man she had been instructed to pull inside was absolutely drenched and too heavy to carry or hardly lift, so she shakily said, "_Mobilicorpus_!" and levitated him into the pub.

The moment the burden lifted off of the first man, he fired another spell into the darkness before ducking inside as well, slamming the door shut and quickly sealing it with a number of magic spells Hannah normally didn't bother to use when she locked up for the night. She stared wide-eyed as he finished this task; then he groaned, twisted around, and sagged against the door as though utterly exhausted.

"Thank _Merlin_ you heard me. I was afraid you wouldn't," he muttered, pushing his wet hair off his forehead.

Hannah was maneuvering the prone figure to the top of the long bar, trying to steady her breathing. She glanced back and asked (trying to keep the worry out of her voice), "What on earth was all of that about?"

By the dim light of the oil lamp, she saw Harry Potter look back at her rather grimly. "I've no idea, actually. There were three of them. I don't know who they were or why they were attacking him. It was all I could do to hold them off to get him in here. He's injured, but I'm not sure how badly." He sighed and pushed his wet hair back again, mussing it up into odd angles. "They'll have Disapparated by now." He looked annoyed at this. "I'll have to tell Kingsley as soon as possible. Hopefully no one saw all the spells going off...otherwise the Obliviators will be furious."

At the mention of injuries, Hannah turned automatically towards the man lying on the bar. He was soaking wet and dripping onto the floor, and as she came closer, his face swam into view by the dull orange glow.

Hannah gasped. "_Neville_?" She turned to look at Harry again, her eyes even wider. "_Neville Longbottom_?"

Harry nodded. "I stayed late tonight," he explained as he walked across the room and slid onto a bar stool, while Hannah quickly summoned a bottle of potion from upstairs. "At work. Gin's got a game in Germany tomorrow so I thought I'd take the chance to catch up on some stuff for Kingsley. I was on my way home when I heard the spells going off, so I went to investigate. And I found him fighting three others, with that bad gash in his arm."

Hannah gingerly unfastened Neville's cloak and pulled it off his arm. His robes were sticky with dark blood and the cut looked fairly deep. She swallowed and opened the bottle to drop some of the liquid into the wound. It smoked and hissed slightly as it made contact with Neville's skin.

"He lost consciousness just as I got to him. I brought him here because it was closest," Harry finished. He was using a drying spell on his own robes now; she could see the water evaporating in the semi-darkness.

"It was lucky for him you were late leaving the office," Hannah said quietly. "Otherwise, who knows what would have happened?" She began tracing her wand over the wound, cleaning it and siphoning off the blood. Neville groaned and stirred slightly again, but did not come to.

"Thankfully, I don't think it's bad enough to take him to St. Mungo's. Otherwise I'd have a ton of people asking questions, and then the _Daily Prophet_ would get involved and come up with some ludicrous story, and then people would start to panic again," Harry muttered. "Can he stay here a few days? I don't know where he was going to or coming from, but I'll pay for him to stay here.."

Hannah scowled stubbornly. "He can stay here as long as he needs to, free of charge. After all, we're friends — all of us. We were in the DA together... and we fought You-Know-Who together. I wouldn't charge either of you for a room. That's just wrong, Harry. It wouldn't be fair."

Harry gave her a weak smile. "Thanks, Hannah."

To distract herself, she began peeling Neville's soggy robes off of his body, starting with the rest of the cloak and then his robe, which was tattered around the edges and very worn. Harry helped her check for more injuries, but fortunately, there was nothing more than a few minor cuts and scratches on his chest and arms. The only thing they did not remove were his trousers; Hannah was sure she wouldn't be able to take them off without turning bright pink.

Once Neville's visible skin was smooth all over again, she said, "I should go tidy up a room for him. Can you bring him up the stairs? I'll get some fresh robes, too."

Harry nodded and levitated Neville from the counter, and followed Hannah upstairs. Once at the top of the landing, she opened the door to one of the rooms, which was right beside a second flight of stairs that led to her private quarters.

"In here would be best, I think," she said, holding the door open. "If he needs help I'll be right above him."

Harry moved Neville into the room towards the bed, and Hannah turned her back and found some clean robes in the dresser. While Harry proceeded to get Neville situated, she transfigured the robes into pajamas. There was a brief, awkward moment when she turned back around holding a pair of striped flannel bottoms, and she quickly blushed and said, "I'll check his loo and make sure everything is in order, if you can get those on him." And before Harry could respond, she hurried into the tiny bathroom and quickly straightened the already-neat counter. It wasn't as if she had never seen a man naked before, but given the current situation, it seemed odd and uncomfortable. Only when Harry called her back in the room did she emerge again.

Neville was completely tucked in, though pale. Harry was watching him with a dark expression, and Hannah tentatively said, "Harry?"

"Hm?"

"Are you all right?"

Harry didn't say anything for a moment, but finally he muttered, "Fine. Just wondering who would have wanted to attack him. I haven't even seen him in over a year, to be honest. Or been in contact with him. And I can't help but wonder if the people who were attacking him were Death Eaters we haven't caught yet. They were using curses most people don't know... I haven't fought curses like those in a long time. Since... Since the Battle of Hogwarts."

Hannah felt the blood drain from her face, and her heart rate sped up slightly. "Death Eaters?"

He glanced up, and said seriously, "Do you want me to stay the night, just in case? I don't mind."

Hannah glanced at Neville again. He was completely motionless, and if it weren't for the very slight rise and fall of the blankets over his chest, she might've panicked. Did she want Harry to stay the night? _Yes_, the tiny voice in the back of her mind encouraged. But a more stubborn voice drowned out the first: she was the landlady of the Leaky Cauldron now, and she couldn't rely on Harry Potter to stay over whenever someone unusual and suspicious was staying at her inn, or whenever unknown wizards were attacking others right outside her door. She finally shook her head. "No, I'll be fine. But thank you."

"Are you sure?"

She forced a tiny smile. "I think so."

Harry shook his head. "I don't know how you do it," he said, as the stepped out of the room and into the hall. "Running this place by yourself. It isn't always safe."

"No, not always. But on the whole, it is really quite wonderful." She smiled. "And it's mine, you know. It's been a long time since I've had anything I could call my own. When the Death Eaters killed my mother, I thought I would never have a home again. I couldn't see how anything could be _good_ again. But it is — this is my home now, and I'm happy again." She paused, and then added, "Though, I will admit, some of those DA lessons really come in handy."

"Oh?"

"Yes; just the other day, McLaggen was in here acting horrible as usual. I hit him with a Furnunculus Charm — he left straight away and I haven't seen him since, thank Merlin."

Harry couldn't help it; he laughed outright. "Serves him right, the git! If you need any help with him, let me know — I'm sure I can find a few other people who'd love to do him in, too. Why was he bothering you?"

Hannah sighed sullenly. "He wants to take me out to dinner and I can't stand him."

"No one else can, either. Next time I see him, I'll hex him for you."

She giggled softly. "Knowing McLaggen, it won't help." They had reached the bottom of the stairs, and she started towards the pub again. "I can start a fire so you can Floo home," she suggested, looking over her shoulder.

Instantly, the laughter died, and Harry scowled at her. "No, that will put you at more risk. I'm going to seal your chimneys for tonight, and in the morning you can take the charms off. I'll Disapparate."

"Very well, then. I'll contact you by Patronus if I need you.

"Who else have you got staying here tonight?"

She shrugged. "A couple of warlocks from Poland in Room 8. They're hard of hearing and crotchety, but I doubt they'll be trouble."

"Hannah, I don't mind staying. Honest."

"I know you don't. But I'll be fine. They may _not_ have been Death Eaters tonight, you know."

"Maybe not, but they weren't up to any good, having an all-out fight in the middle of downtown London. They were careless and stupid; the Ministry will be in an uproar over it. Neville's well known because he defied Voldemort straight to his face; I'm sure there are plenty of people still alive who want him dead. Just like me. Occupational hazard, you might say, defying the Dark Lord in front of hundreds of people."

Hannah had tensed visibly when Harry had said _Voldemort_, but she tried not to show it. "You sealed the doors shut magically," she said, mostly to reassure herself. "We'll be fine here. It's only a few more hours until dawn anyway."

Harry frowned at her for a few moments, but he finally sighed and said, "Fine; I'll check in on you in the morning and make sure everything is okay." He pointed his wand at the fireplaces, and Hannah heard an odd squelching noise from inside of them, as though they had been plugged.

With that, he nodded once to her, twisted on the spot and vanished, and she was alone again.

For a few seconds she stood silently in the bar, glancing around the dark, empty pub. The wind sounded a lot louder, and she could hear the rain furiously beating against the dark windowpanes. She wondered if Neville's unknown attackers had really Disapparated, or if they were waiting, prowling beyond the door. Shivering, she silently pointed her wand at the lamp, which extinguished in a small hiss, plunging the bar into total darkness. For a long time, she stood motionless and silent, her nerves taut and her heart pounding, waiting for something to happen, but the windows remained black and she didn't dare go to look out.

At last, she quietly tiptoed back upstairs, glancing over her shoulder a couple of times, but nothing changed, and on the landing, she paused to listen at Neville's door to make sure he was breathing before climbing the narrow staircase to her own quarters.

Hannah's rooms were small and cramped, but tidy and cozy. The Leaky Cauldron had sloping, steep roofs, which created angled ceilings in the rooms where she resided when she wasn't downstairs welcoming guests, serving mulled mead, or waiting on dinner parties in the parlors. Her bed was a large four-poster with rich warm hangings in deep gold, skimming the floor in thick bunches and tied back with black velvet tassels. Her vanity had a beautifully carved frame with a round mirror; she had crammed with photographs of her friends from school about the edges. As she glanced into the mirror, they all waved and grinned back at her — Ernie, Justin, Susan and other Hufflepuffs. There were a few photographs that included friends she'd had in other houses: Harry, Ron, Hermione, waved from a couple of these, and one picture taken after the Battle of Hogwarts included Neville.

She slowly pulled her damp robe off and draped it over the back of the dressing table's chair, her eyes lingering on this particular photograph. Neville waved at her modestly, while most of the others laughed and waved wildly while hanging off each other's shoulders. He moved slightly as Ron jostled him, and she wondered who had been after Neville tonight, and in Muggle London of all places.

After all, Harry had been right — Neville had been something of a hero during and after the war. Hannah could remember students thronging around him at Hogwarts in the aftermath of battle, eyes wide with wonder at the young man who had been so brave to defy the Dark Lord to his very face and live to tell the tale. She had been one of them, she thought with some shyness, as she looked in the mirror at her slightly damp hair and face. She had been afraid to come too close to Neville, because suddenly the clumsy, round-faced, shy boy from Gryffindor was a modest hero, and not quite so round-faced as he had been before, and seemingly a little taller and more broad shouldered than she remembered from before their sixth year. Or perhaps she had never taken the time to notice properly.

He had let those who came near him touch the beautifully famous Sword of Gryffindor; the sword that had destroyed Lord Voldemort's morbidly faithful companion, the terrifying snake Nagini. People had begged Neville to tell them what had happened countless times, and she could remember the pink tinge in his cheeks whenever he was forced to explain why he'd defied Voldemort, and how Harry Potter had given him the order that the snake must be destroyed, because it was very important (though Neville admitted he wasn't sure why, and that he would have to ask Harry some day), and how the Sorting Hat had given him the Sword when he had begged someone or something or _anything_ for help.

Hannah's friends had gone to congratulate Neville, shaking his hand and laughing about a battle they had been so frightened to fight in only hours earlier. Hannah, however, couldn't seem to laugh about it at all. The Dark Lord and the Death Eaters were the reason she no longer had a family and why she had lost some of her friends that night, and she had hung back while Ernie and Justin clapped Neville on the shoulder that morning in the radiant dawn light and relived moments of glory. She wondered if Neville had noticed her that day, standing at the end of what had been the Hufflepuff table, watching him with a mixture of admiration and longing and sadness.

However, since then, Hannah hadn't seen Neville much at all — in fact, during the past year, she hadn't seen him once.

Right after the war, he had returned to Hogwarts to finish his seventh, uncompleted year, though he was only one of three students in their year that did. Hannah herself had chosen not to return to school; it seemed pointless, somehow. She no longer had a family or a place to stay, and she had missed part of her sixth year due to her mother's death. Going back to school seemed as though it would be going back to a life she'd once had that could never be fully recovered, and the very thought hurt and made her eyes sting with tears. Instead, she had applied for and taken a job as a barmaid at the Three Broomsticks. Madam Rosmerta had needed the help, and being a barmaid had appealed to Hannah. She would be around people, serving drinks and watching the laughter, something that she'd had very little of for a long time.

Even then, she only saw Neville a very few times during the course of the year, each when he came into the pub with Professors Sprout, Flitwick, and McGonagall, who usually let both him and Hermione Granger accompany them, even when it wasn't a Hogsmeade weekend. He had always ordered a butterbeer, and the two times Hannah had waited on him he had been pleasant and nice to her, always asking how she was doing and if she could join them. She usually couldn't, because there were always customers to serve, but it made her feel good that Neville always offered.

Then the school year had ended, and Neville had left Hogwarts and simply vanished — Hannah had no idea where he'd gone. She never thought to ask Professor Sprout or anyone else, because the days were slipping away into weeks and months...and then one morning, Madam Rosmerta had commented that old Tom of the Leaky Cauldron had passed away. The Leaky would be in need of a new landlord or landlady, and with all the upheaval from the war, it would sell quickly. Madam Rosmerta felt Hannah would be an excellent choice for the living; she even went so far as to offer Hannah a small loan to help, and Hannah had lucked up and been the first bidder for the property.

The next few months had been a whirlwind. This — _this _— was her true calling in life, and she knew it the moment she'd stepped into the vacant, dusty Leaky Cauldron and looked around. This was something she would be good at, something her personality would be able to make the most of, something she could become known for. A thrill of excitement had tingled inside of her, as she looked at herself in the mirror over the bar that day. The war was over and everyone was making new lives. This would be hers. She was young, yes — perhaps the youngest-ever landlady of the historic inn — but then again, others were just as young as she was, and were getting jobs that normally would have taken years to obtain.

She had first cleaned the Leaky Cauldron more than she was sure it had ever been cleaned in the past two centuries. Layers of dirt and grime finally came up with multiple scouring spells, and she was amazed to find that the black candelabras and chandeliers were really a rich, warm brass. The fireplaces came clean from centuries of accumulated soot, and the old mirror behind the bar sparkled brilliantly after a few washes. Within a couple of days, the entire place looked utterly and completely different. The hard work paid off: people were flocking to the Leaky in droves to see the changes.

She was so busy, she could hardly keep track of time. Old schoolmates came in for lunch or to listen to a Quidditch game on the wireless with their friends; there were dinner parties and guests staying overnight every evening. The Leaky Cauldron was not the only place that had seen a transformation; all of Diagon Alley was changing back into the wonderful place it had been before the war started, and new businesses were opening up.

In all that time, she hadn't thought of Neville Longbottom. Oh, she'd seen nearly all of his friends — Ron Weasley was working at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes now, since George needed the help. And Harry Potter dropped by every so often on his lunch break. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, scarred and maimed though she was from her experiences in the Battle of Hogwarts, had opened a tiny little shop that sold all sorts of Divinitation supplies and trinkets, and Dean Thomas had taken a job with Gringotts. But somehow, none of the former Gryffindors in her year ever mentioned Neville, or even remembered him.

And now he was one floor below her, unconscious. She swallowed and turned away from the mirror. How on earth could just looking at an unconscious, half-naked old acquaintance she hadn't seen in over a year make her stomach flip this way? It wasn't as if she had never been on a date before. Ernie or Justin sometimes took her out, when she felt she could leave the pub in the hands of her part-time help. And then there were other boys who would flirt with her, like Zacharias or Cormac (both of whom she disliked). Cormac was just annoying, arrogant, and aggressive — but her opinion of Zacharias had changed drastically when he had determinedly shoved his way out of the castle to flee from the battle after all of his friends remained to fight. She wanted nothing to do with him now.

She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to warm up from the chill of the rain, and wondered if Neville would remember her.

_Of course he will_, she scoffed, as she crawled into bed beneath the soft sheets and curled up. After all, it wasn't as though they had never talked before in their lives. They had known each other at school, after all.

But then again, there was something about the sight of those broad, tanned shoulders and the absence of some of the pudginess in his face and torso from when he had been younger, that stirred something inside her. Something that Ernie and Justin and the other boys she'd dated never seemed to awaken before. The last time she had felt her gut twist that way she'd been a fourth year in a broom closet with a sixth year Quidditch player who had been very skilled at _other_ things besides Quidditch. Disturbed with herself, she punched her pillow a few times and burrowed under the blankets. The most important thing at the moment wasn't _flirting_ with Neville Longbottom. It was making sure he would be okay come morning, and finding out why he had been attacked in Muggle London.

If, that was, he even remembered her well enough to discuss all of that.


	2. Neville's Tale

**Author's Note:** I will admit, one reason I'm not crazy about this story...six years after originally writing it...is because I realize now how bloody cliché the plot was. Being my first _Harry Potter_ fic, it kinda holds a small place in my heart, but it isn't the favorite fic I've written for this fandom by a long shot. So if you keep reading, just know that it is a pretty stereotypical story, and some of my other _HP_ stuff isn't like this. I hope, anyways. *sweatdrop*

~BD

* * *

**Neville's Tale**

* * *

A steady, dreary sort of rain pattered against the windows, and the dull, monotonous sound slowly wormed its way into his brain.

For a long time he could hear it — as though it were static fading in and out on a badly tuned Wireless — but gradually it grew a little louder, and the grayness pressed upon his eyelids until he realized he wasn't dreaming anymore.

_And it had been such a good dream_, he thought wistfully, without opening his eyes.

There had been a beautiful woman in the darkness, illuminated by a faint orange light that wasn't bright enough to show her features clearly. There had been a throbbing pain in his arm before he had seen her, but it had disappeared after a few minutes, even though he couldn't remember why. He supposed it didn't really matter. It was just a dream, after all.

The next thing he knew was the sound of the rain. It was washing the dream away so quickly it was almost surreal, and he realized he was awake. He shut his eyes a little tighter before slowly cracking them open.

He had no idea where he was.

The room was small, and he could make out an old mirror across from him, opaque and gray from lack of light. He slowly turned his head and saw two wide windows, framed by thick curtains of deep wine-colored velvet. The bed he was in was soft and warm and comfortable, and seemed to be covered in blankets of similar material and patterns to the curtains.

He blinked, confused and wary. The room came into clearer focus. He noticed a painting on one of the walls, of a serene meadow dotted with wildflowers, blowing gently in a soft breeze.

Where was he? He fought to remember, but his brain seemed groggy and slow. Nothing seemed to make sense at all. The last thing he remembered was _not_ this room.

There was a sudden, soft knock on the door. Instinctively, Neville jumped and pulled the sheets up to his chin, uncomfortably and instantly aware that he was half naked and someone wanted to come inside the room. Before he could respond, the door open, and a young woman stepped in.

Only, she wasn't _just_ a young woman — she was stunningly pretty, with long blonde hair pulled back at the nape of her neck and cascading down her back in lusciously thick, bouncy curls. She had large blue eyes and pink cheeks. The long dress she wore was a dark green color; the bodice laced up and was low cut to show the soft, plump swells of her breasts, the sleeves clung to her shoulders, and her waist was slender followed by curvy hips under the swaying fabric.

He suddenly rather wished that an ugly old man had walked through the door.

She saw that he was awake, and before he could stop her, she had moved quickly to his bedside and placed a cool, slender hand on his forehead, murmuring, "Oh thank goodness you're awake! Harry was so worried...!"

He squeaked and stared at her, and she withdrew her hand as a blush spread over her face. Nervously, she tugged a strand of hair over her shoulder and said, "He should be here any minute — he wanted to check on you before he went in to work."

"Harry?" The voice that came from his throat didn't sound like his. Harry _Potter_? What was going on? Why was Harry checking up on him? And more importantly...

"Er, where am I?" he asked nervously, drawing the sheet up closer to his chin.

"The Leaky Cauldron," she answered hesitantly. "Don't you remember anything about last night?"

Last night? No, he didn't remember hardly anything about last night. Had he gotten drunk? Had he _married_ this creature or something? Had Harry been his best man? Surely he was still dreaming.

She must have seen the utter confusion and panic in his face, because she explained, "You were attacked by three people, out in Charing Cross Road. We don't know who they were or why they attacked you, I'm afraid. Harry brought you here."

Instantly, the previous night's events seeped back into his brain, and Neville groaned and flopped back on the pillow, covering his eyes with one arm, forgetting all about the sheet he had pulled up so protectively only moments before. "Oh," he muttered.

"Were... were they Death Eaters?" she asked, her voice trembling just slightly.

He lifted his arm enough to glance at her. She looked terrified at the very idea of Death Eaters, and he wasn't sure he could blame her. But before he could respond, the door opened again. Harry Potter walked in, wearing dark red Auror robes and looking serious.

"Harry!" The girl turned, a smile blossoming across her face. "I was wondering where you were."

"He's awake then?" Harry asked without preamble. She nodded, and Harry walked to Neville's bedside with a grim expression. "I don't usually expect to find old friends in the middle of Muggle London having a duel with three unknown wizards," he said, holding out his hand. "I need to know what happened though, so I can relate that to Kingsley and the other Aurors. If there are still Death Eaters out there, we need to know about it so we can arrange a warrant for their arrest, and try to find them."

Neville forced a small smile and extended his own hand, shaking Harry's. "Hello, Harry."

Harry didn't smile back — he was obviously waiting for an answer.

"It's a bit of a long story, and I'm not sure I'll be much help," Neville finally stammered.

"I can fix you both some breakfast if you'd like," the girl suggested. "In one of the private parlors downstairs."

Harry smiled at her. "Thanks, Hannah. That's an excellent idea."

Neville stared at the girl. _Hannah_? Surely this wasn't —

But before he could ask, she had slipped back through the door, and Harry was gazing at him again with a sharp, shrewd look. "I'm not leaving until I know why I found you injured and nearly unconscious on Charing Cross Road last night, continued your fight, _and_ dragged you back here."

"You dragged me back here?"

Harry finally smiled, just slightly. "I couldn't very well leave you to die in Muggle London, could I? It was easier than having to erase a lot of memories in case the police found you and wondered what the wand was for."

"I suppose I do owe you some sort of an explanation then."

"I'll go on downstairs and help Hannah while you get dressed. Come down when you're finished, and we can talk."

"Hannah?"

"Hannah Abbott. From Hufflepuff? She bought the Leaky Cauldron six months ago. You really have been out of touch with everyone, haven't you?"

Before Neville could respond, Harry had turned for the door again. "I'll see you downstairs in a bit. I need to send an owl in to the Ministry or they'll wonder why I'm late for work. Kingsley will have the entire Auror Department searching for me otherwise."

Neville nodded, and Harry closed the door.

For a few moments, he sat there in bed, his mind whirling. The rain continued to pour against the windowpanes, making his thoughts turn to mush, and he finally pushed the sheets aside and got up. His rucksack was against the wall — he assumed Harry had brought it up the previous night — and after he extracted some clothes and a set of clean robes, he took a quick shower and changed.

He felt a lot better after the shower, almost normal again. The rickety staircase took him down to the narrow hall, and he could hear voices in the bar-area, men laughing and talking about the morning's news, but before he could enter the pub Hannah stepped out, meeting him in the hall.

For a brief moment, he stared at her, without realizing he was even doing so. He couldn't believe this was _Hannah Abbott_, the pink-cheeked girl he had gone to school with. Perhaps it was simply because he hadn't seen her in so long, but he suddenly wondered why he'd never noticed before how beautiful she was, despite the fact that they had been in several classes together. When Harry had first said her name upstairs, the image of a young girl with blonde pigtails had come to mind, but this woman was anything _but_ the little girl from their years together at Hogwarts.

She smiled and said, "This way. Harry's in the parlor."

He followed her down a corridor to another door, and when she let him inside, he discovered a small, cozy room with a warm fire crackling in the grate and four old wingback chairs situated around it. A small table between the chairs contained a silver tray laden with tea and scones, jam, butter, and cream. Harry was already sitting in one of the chairs, scanning a piece of parchment with his brow furrowed, but when Hannah and Neville walked in he looked up. His expression cleared, and he smiled at them.

"Thanks, Hannah."

"It's not a problem, Harry. You know that," Hannah returned the smile, and then flashed it again at Neville, who stared at the sight of that pretty pink mouth curving upwards in his direction. Did she have any idea that when she did that, his whole stomach turned upside down for some unknown reason? He would have to get out of here as fast as he could this morning...otherwise, he was sure he would go crazy around her.

"You are going to join us, aren't you?" Harry asked her, a slight note of surprise in his voice.

Hannah blushed. "Oh! But I thought you wanted to talk to Neville about —"

"You helped me drag him in here last night. Besides, I doubt it's going to be a top secret Ministry meeting."

"Well, all right. Only let me tell Dennis to cover for me out in the pub." She turned and hurried out of the parlor, pulling the door to behind her.

Neville finally found his voice. "Dennis?" he asked, glancing warily at Harry.

For a split second, a dark, haunted look came into Harry's eyes. "Creevey," he said quietly, rolling his parchment up and vanishing it.

Neville slowly sat down in the seat opposite of Harry. "Oh," he said, his own voice quiet. Then, tentatively, he asked, "Er, how is he doing?"

"He's working here for the summer before he goes back to school. This will be his final year."

Neville nodded, an odd, numb feeling spreading through his fingers as he reached for a teacup. "He wants to finish, then?"

"Yes and no," Harry answered. He stirred his tea, but Neville could tell he wasn't really paying much attention to it. "I know it hurts him to go back there, and finish his education, knowing Colin never did. He wanted to drop out, actually. He asked Hannah to take him on full time, but she wouldn't do it. She talked him into going back, somehow." He shook his head. "I'll be damned if I know how she did it — one day people were saying he wouldn't go back for his seventh year because of Colin. How he couldn't stand to even walk through the castle anymore. And the next, he had agreed to go back after all, and Hannah was going to let him stay here in the summer and wash dishes, and said he could come back after his seventh year if he still needed a job."

Neville looked down into his own tea, several emotions battling inside of him. He could easily remember lifting Colin's body off the lawn at Hogwarts; he had been surprised how little Colin had weighed compared to some of the adults he had dragged inside earlier during the ceasefire, and he grieved at the thought that Colin hadn't left the castle with his brother. His death could have been avoided completely had Colin heeded Professor McGonagall's orders. He could remember Oliver Wood helping him — Oliver, a man he had never even talked to during school, because Oliver was so much older than he was and a great Quidditch player, and Neville had nothing in common with him before that night. It was funny, he thought sadly: how war could bring you closer to people you would otherwise never speak to. That night, he and Oliver had talked some, bringing in the bodies of the dead, and a bond had formed between them that Neville had never quite expected.

The door opened again, bringing Neville out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Hannah walking back in the room. She sat down in one of the remaining two chairs, smiling at them — but the smile faded a bit when she saw their expressions.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, glancing from one to the other.

"I was just telling Neville about Dennis," Harry said bracingly, pouring Hannah a cup of tea.

"_Oh_." At this, her expression changed as well, and she slowly picked up the milk and poured a little into her cup.

"Is he doing okay?" Harry asked.

She nodded just a little. "He seems to be. He'll start school again in about two weeks. I've told him I'll write to him while he's there, every single day if he wants me to. He's... scared. Last year was painful. He didn't want to have to repeat it all over again. Having to see his brother's marker on the lawn with all the rest... Having to walk through the castle..."

Harry sighed. "I know how he feels." Then, to change the subject, he said, "Anyways. Neville, you'd better start explaining what was going on last night, because I need to give Kingsley some sort of report."

Neville paused as he took a scone from the tray. "Well, I suppose I had better start at the beginning, so it will make more sense," he admitted. He thought for a moment, and then started, "See, after I finished at Hogwarts, Professor Sprout suggested I take a world tour and continue my Herbology studies. Gran was all for it — it's sort of traditional for a wizard, and you know Gran; she's all for tradition. So I traveled to a lot of different places, mostly to study plants in their natural habitats. I wanted to see all the ones I had never seen before — the really rare ones that you just don't get a chance to study in school. I went to Canada first, then America, South America...then I traveled to some of the Pacific Islands, Japan, China, Russia, and parts of India. Then I headed for Greece. And that's how last night came about."

"I was really interested in going to Greece because the warm climate supports a lot of plants that aren't found here in Britain. I traveled through Turkey and was heading down through Albania to catch a Portkey to the Greek Islands. Everything seemed fine — I checked in at the British-Albanian Embassy of Magic and arranged the Portkey. I had an hour to spare, so I went to a small pub for something to eat. And that's when everything went wrong."

Hannah's eyes were wide; Harry's were narrowed. Neville winced at the expression on his former housemate's face before he continued on. "I suppose I shouldn't have gone in, but it was the nearest pub to the Embassy and I didn't want to go too far into a town I wasn't familiar with. It was really rather dark and grimy, worse than the Hog's Head, even. I ordered something to eat and stayed in a quiet little corner, hoping I could get back to the Embassy quickly, but I noticed a few men kept glancing at me and I had a feeling they were up to no good. I was right — as soon as I paid and left, they followed me out. I realized they were right behind me, and one of them had a wand. Then I heard one of the mutter that I looked familiar. That was what really got me — they spoke English, and they didn't have an Albanian or Greek accent. So I started to run towards the Embassy, but they were right behind me, and I knew I wouldn't make it in time."

"So I Disapparated. The only trouble was, the first one caught my cloak just as I turned, and the other two had caught him. I was in a hurry, and I didn't really think about where I was going, so I'm lucky I even made it London in one piece. As it was, I overshot Diagon Alley by three streets. As soon as I had appeared in London, I realized they had caught my cloak, and all of a sudden I was fighting all of them at once. I kept trying to run, to get to someplace to Disapparate again, but they kept so close I wasn't able to do so. I know one of them hit me in the arm—it's hard fighting three people at once when you don't even know why they're after you or what's going on. I suppose they just wanted money or something. The last thing I remember was a jet of red light flying over my shoulder."

"That would have been mine," Harry said grimly.

"So why were _you_ in Charing Cross after midnight?" Neville asked curiously.

"I was late leaving the office," Harry replied. "I happened to walk over to Charing Cross to make sure the entrance to the pub was okay, because it was storming so badly, and I saw the spells going off as I got closer. When I realized you were fighting three wizards alone, and about to lose consciousness, I started fighting too. I don't think they appreciated it," he admitted, with a grim smile. "I got you to the Leaky Cauldron's door and started yelling for Hannah."

Neville blushed and glanced at Hannah, who was silent. "Harry tells me you took over the Leaky Cauldron six months ago," he said, trying to think of some conversation to include her.

She nodded. "Yes, they needed a new landlady; Madam Rosmerta put me up to it." She paused, and then said, "After we got you inside last night, and bolted the door, we healed your arm and got you upstairs to a room."

"I'm very thankful," Neville said apologetically. "I didn't mean to put you both through so much trouble last night. You could have both gotten hurt, and it was all my fault."

Harry snorted. "Hurt? Please. If I haven't gotten used to fighting Dark wizards by now, and getting hurt occasionally, I'm in a lot of trouble."

Neville grinned sheepishly at the joke, but then sobered. "But I put Hannah in danger, too."

Hannah smiled slightly. "I run the Leaky Cauldron. It isn't as though I don't see unusual things all the time. I'm just glad you're all right."

Neville was just about to ask her how she enjoyed running the pub, but Harry cut the conversation short with a resigned sigh and said, "Well, the bad news is, I'm sure whomever was after you Disapparated after we got inside the pub and locked the door. So we have no way to trace them. I'll speak to Kingsley today and find out if there's any recourse with the Albanian government." He paused, frowned, and his eyes lingered on the flames dancing inside the grate. "You're positive that's where you were last night?" he asked, his brow furrowed slightly in thought.

"Yes. You can check with the Embassy. They probably have a record of the Portkey I missed."

"I was just thinking I'd have someone check into that."

"What's so important about Albania?" Neville asked, confused.

Harry put down his teacup. "That was where Voldemort hid for years before returning to power. We suspect some of the Death Eaters fled there after the war, but we don't have a lot of proof. Kingsley is working with the Albanian government to determine if we can extradite any known Dark wizards who were assisting Voldemort in the war back to England for trial. But it's proving difficult. Albania is a good place to rally, after all — it's the place their old master once hid, and there are many places they can hide there too, and quite undetected. I wouldn't be surprised if those were Death Eaters you ran into last night."

Neville felt his stomach twist, and he suddenly seemed cold. "That would explain why they recognized me."

"If they were actually Death Eaters, and especially if they participated in the Battle of Hogwarts, then yes, they would have likely recognized you. Standing up and defying Voldemort in front of hundreds of people does tend to get you noticed." Harry's mouth twitched slightly, as though he wanted to smile. "And I don't think you need to complete your grand tour at this point, either. It would be too dangerous after last night."

Neville blinked. "I hadn't thought about that, but yes, I think you're right." There was a moment of silence, and then he said abruptly, "I'll head home. I've seen enough of the world to last me a lifetime anyway. I should check on Gran. Make sure she's doing okay. We've only been exchanging letters, and very infrequently. She'll be glad to see me."

"Well, if you need a place to stay," Hannah said stoutly, "you're quite welcome here. I don't mind in the least. And I do greatly apologize, but if you'll both excuse me, I should go relieve Dennis — he's probably ready to go back to washing dishes. He's not very fond of being out front on the bar. Neville, if you need to use the Floo to contact your grandmother, there's powder in your bedroom on the mantel and your floo is connected to the network." Then, turning to Harry, she said, "Harry, thank you for stopping by this morning."

"It was no trouble. Thank you for opening up last night."

She smiled at both of them before she walked out again, leaving Harry and Neville alone once more.

The two men glanced at each other, and Neville ran a distracted hand through his hair. It seemed long — he probably needed a haircut.

"I'd best go upstairs," he said after a moment. "And contact Gran."

Harry nodded. "If you need me, just send an owl. Kingsley or Robards may want to question you. If they do, I'll let you know. And we should get together soon. You know Ron's working here in Diagon Alley? So is Dean. We've all missed you being around."

"What is everyone else doing?"

"Hermione's at the Ministry, in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures — she's driving Ron mad with _spew_, she's still on that kick. Lavender and Parvati are both in Diagon Alley, however. They opened a little Divinitation shop together." Harry twitched visibly. "Reading fortunes and selling brightly colored amulet stones that are likely rubbish."

"I'll avoid _that_," Neville moaned. "I had quite enough of it in school."

"So did I. I try to avoid walking by their place if I can; they have a bad tendency to pounce on people and drag them inside for a reading. Let's see... Ron's helping George with the joke shop..." Harry paused, and Neville saw the haunted look in his eyes again. "And there are quite a few others at the Ministry. A couple of people stayed in Hogsmeade and got jobs. The Harpies signed Ginny as a Chaser. Luna is traveling the world like you were. She's searching for all those weird creatures she always went on about, with her boyfriend. Rolf, I think his name is? Weird bloke, a lot like Luna, but nice enough. They're having a great time from what I understand — she sends Gin and me letters every week or so, telling us what she has and hasn't discovered so far. I should probably warn her when I write her next to be on the lookout for scattered Death Eaters. They would probably recognize her, too."

Neville smiled fondly at the memory of Luna and said, "That sounds like her — looking for those creatures she likes. She always sort of made me a bit nervous," Neville admitted, "but she was a good friend." He paused, and sighed heavily. "I should probably start looking for a job, too, I suppose. Uncle Algie paid for my world tour — he was really excited when I said I was going on one — but I don't want to keep bumming off him or Gran the rest of my life. I guess it's time for me to settle down a bit."

Harry stood up, gathering his satchel and sliding it over his shoulder. "You could take a job here in Diagon Alley," he suggested.

"I'm not sure what I could do. I didn't have as many O.W.L.s. or N.E.W.T.s. as everyone else."

"You could do a lot of things! Actually, there's a shop that specializes in magical plants down at the other end of Diagon Alley — you might get a job there. That would be just about perfect for you."

Neville's expression brightened. "Really?"

"And you could keep your room here until you find a place to live. At least then you'd be around, and you could hang out with everyone until you can find a flat nearby."

Neville suddenly felt slightly numb. "Oh, no. I can't stay here."

Harry looked confused. "Why on earth not? Everyone hangs out here. Especially with Hannah running the place now."

"No." Neville fidgeted a little as he stood up, his face pink. "I can't _stay_ here at the Leaky Cauldron..."

"Sure you can. Hannah wouldn't mind at all."

"But _I_ mind. I can't live in the same place as Hannah. She's... well..." He ran his hand behind his neck, aware that Harry was watching him curiously. Finally he took a deep breath and plunged on. "You know more about this than I do, because you have Ginny, but I never really dated anyone in school. I'm just no good with girls, and everyone knows that. Hannah hardly looked twice at me this morning in here."

Harry stared at him. "You're joking, right?"

"No. I'm not. Listen, if I get a job around Diagon Alley, I'll find a flat nearby, but I just don't think I can stay here."

"You're off your bloody rocker. Hannah was really worried about you last night! You're one of her friends! And she did look at you. Quite a bit, really."

Neville shook his head. "I doubt that. Harry, let's face it. I'm never going to be funny or good-looking like Seamus, or tall like Ron, or popular like you. The only girl I ever dated in school was Ginny, and that was only to the Yule Ball in our fourth year. We went as friends. I don't know anything about girls, really. And Hannah sees plenty of other guys all the time."

"You may not be funny or tall, but everyone thinks of you as a hero after the last battle and you _were_." Harry's voice was sharp. "And even if you took a room here, that isn't dating Hannah."

"I know that. What I meant is... I'm not sure I can be in the same room with her without staring at her or making a fool of myself."

"It's just _Hannah_. We had classes with her and saw her all the time at school."

"Maybe, but I still would manage to make a fool of myself around her. Listen, I'll see if I can get a job in Diagon Alley. I would like to be close to everyone again. I've missed seeing everybody. And it seems a lot nicer here now, what with the war over. Traveling was rough. I never got to write or keep in touch, and I hated that."

"Okay. I'll check up on you in a couple of days, then."

"Sure thing. Harry, listen — thanks, for everything. I really appreciate it."

"Don't mention it. I know you'd do the same for me. See you in a few days, then." Harry smiled, shook Neville's hand, and turned and left the room.

For a few moments, Neville stood in front of the fire, irresolute, wondering what to do next. Absently, he picked up another scone; the back of his brain dimly aware of how delicious it was, while the rest of his mind debated his options. He should really go back home, and check on his grandmother. Not that she couldn't take care of herself, but he hadn't seen her in almost a year. Then perhaps, once he had settled down at her place for a bit, and took a well-deserved rest, he could return to Diagon Alley and take Harry's suggestion. It would be nice to work around his old friends again. He'd find a nice flat in Diagon Alley if possible — he didn't need to live around Muggles if he could help it. Smiling, Neville finished the rest of the scone, headed out of the parlor, back upstairs, packed what little he had into his knapsack, and took the Floo home.


	3. Of Relatives and Jobs

**Author's Note:** This chapter was especially difficult for me to write back when I originally sketched it out (in 2009-ish). My beta did a phenomenal job keeping Neville and Augusta in character when she proof-read the chapter. I am still grateful for the help! It was really hard to write Neville getting frustrated with his grandmother, and not have him go completely out of character.

* * *

**Of Relatives & Jobs**

* * *

Augusta Longbottom surveyed her grandson critically over the top of her teacup.

"Let me see if I have this correct," she began, her voice slightly stern.

After all, she hadn't seen him months, and all of a sudden he had returned with over-long hair, shabby robes, and a light tan, looking as though he had lost the expression of innocence and clumsiness he'd had for so many years, and furthermore, he was telling her he wanted to try to find a job in Diagon Alley.

"You wish to move to London to work in a shop as a clerk, despite the fact that several members of this family can connect you to useful contacts at the Ministry of Magic and ensure your future with a successful job that will lead to a higher, more secure position as you get older. And your current place of residence will — temporarily, at any rate — be a room in an inn over an alcoholic establishment. Have I missed anything?"

Neville twitched and tried to control his frustration. She always made things difficult, and he should have known that this conversation would be no exception. In a clipped voice he responded, "You make it sound like a terrible idea, Gran."

The expression on her face did not soften; if anything, it became more severe. "Well, that is because it is _not_ the wisest idea you have ever had. Algernon can put you in touch with incredibly powerful wizards and witches who can get you into the right —"

"I know he can. But I can't rely on Uncle Algie forever."

"Relying on useful, familial contacts is merely a fact of life, Neville. And while he and the rest of your family are alive, you should make every effort to accept their help when it is meant in the best possible way, for the best possible results," she stated patiently.

"I've been on my own for months, and I've done fine until last night."

"Thankfully, yes. And Mr. Potter was luckily there to assist in your predicament when you were attacked —"

Despite the fact that she had been very proud of him as of late, this comment touched a nerve. Hotly, Neville responded, "Well then. I'm sorry you can't adopt him. He's already an Auror for the Ministry, and he'd be the perfect little grandson for you instead of me."

Augusta scowled. "Neville, really! That isn't what I meant in the least! I'm quite proud of you as a grandson!"

"Only because I fought in the Battle of Hogwarts?" Neville asked. He knew his voice was testy, and he knew his question wasn't true. But she was making things difficult, and the time had long passed when he would have backed down and done what Augusta wanted him to do. He was no longer a child, and he had seen and done things that most grown wizards and witches never experienced. He knew she meant well, but every so often, she still treated him as though he were a first year who had barely scraped his way into Hogwarts.

"That _is not_ true," she answered sharply. "You are _my_ grandson and I am proud of you because of _all_ you have accomplished. And I only want what's best for you. You have the future to consider; a potential family if you marry and have children! Now," she took a sip of tea before continuing, "Algernon or Enid can get you a position in the Magical Law Enforcement Department or the Department of International Magical Cooperation, both of which are respectable, valuable departments that would —"

"_No_, Gran."

"You could be an incredible Auror!" she cried angrily, red blotches appearing on her withered cheeks. "You have the talent your father and your mother had! The Minister would hire you without question and you would likely even bypass the training program! After your actions in the final battle of the last war you would have no trouble if you would just _apply_ yourself! You would be brilliant as an Auror, Neville!" She emphasized the last few words by pounding her palm on the table.

"But I don't _want_ to be an Auror!" Neville groaned, running his hands into his hair, wishing there were some way to make her understand. "I don't want to keep looking behind me all the time, wondering if someone's about to attack me! I'm _good_ at Herbology and there's a possible opening at a little plant shop —"

"Neville, you have _not_ thought this through properly. Wanting to take a job as a clerk in a shop selling magical plants? Do you _hear_ yourself?"

"Harry was the one who made the suggestion, and I think it's a good one! All of my old friends are in Diagon Alley, or nearby! The Leaky Cauldron is simply somewhere I can stay until I find a flat in London —"

"You are from a respectable family and I will not have you living in a _flat_ in London —" she started, but he cut her off.

"Ron Weasley is from a respectable family and he's living in a flat with his brother over Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes!"

"This is about you, and no one else!"

The door to the kitchen suddenly opened, and Augusta and Neville both looked up, each red in the face. Algie blinked from the threshold with an expression of mild interest, before he commented sardonically, "Keep it up, will you? Could bloody well hear you outside in the garden. And you're about to break that teacup, Gus."

Augusta put her cup down sharply; it rattled on the saucer. "Algernon, I thought I instructed you to go home when Neville first arrived, and furthermore, I thought instructed you to _mind your own business_."

Neville stole a glance at his Uncle Algie, who looked utterly unconcerned with his sister's tirade.

When Neville had first returned to his room in at Leaky Cauldron after his discussion with Harry and Hannah, he had traveled back to his grandmother's kitchen without sending word that he was coming, hoping to surprise his family. His great-uncle had been in his sister's kitchen alone, rifling through the morning's _Daily Prophet_, and after a hearty cry of surprise and a bone-breaking hug, and some exclamation of how much taller Neville looked and how the tan quite definitely suited him, Algie had yelled upstairs for Augusta to come down and greet her grandson, whom she had not seen in months. The reunion had been happy and pleasant; they had bombarded Neville with questions about his travels while hugging him and leading him to the table for something to eat and drink. But when Neville politely told his uncle that he wanted to speak to Augusta alone, she'd taken on a beady, sharp look that he had once associated with Professor McGonagall, and she'd ordered Algie to go home so they wouldn't be interrupted. Algie had initially retreated outside, but Neville wasn't surprised to find that his great-uncle hadn't followed the instructions in their entirety. The man was known for being eccentric and doing things his own way.

"Perhaps you did." Algie entered the kitchen, waving his wand as he did so. A third teacup and saucer soared from the cabinet and the teapot rose from the table to oblige him. "But I didn't listen." He caught the cup and pocketed his wand, then sat down between them. "I never listen," he added, as an afterthought.

"Algernon, this is between Neville and myself. Do go home to Enid."

"Well, I _am_ his great-uncle, so I suppose I should have a say-so, especially on Frank's behalf."

"Look," Neville said, "I don't care what anyone thinks, and I don't think my dad would care what I did with my life if he were able to talk to me coherently." Anger rose in him like a sudden, hateful beast, coiling and twisting through his chest. He hated to think about his parents sometimes; it hurt too much. He would never know what they would have wanted for him — if they'd have been insistent he take a job at the Ministry, or if they would have encouraged him to follow his own dreams. He added darkly, "I want to find a job in Diagon Alley. I don't _want_ to work for the Ministry of Magic! I want to be near my friends, to enjoy life a little before I have to find a steady job, and I want to find my own way in life without taking handouts from all my relatives who feel sorry for me because they don't think I'll amount to anything without their help!"

Augusta looked furious. She opened her mouth, but Algie spoke first. "_I_ don't feel sorry for you, and I don't think you'll amount to nothing without our help." Placidly, he dropped five sugar cubes into his tea and went on, "I think it's a good idea, actually. You should do what _you_ want to do."

"Algernon!" Augusta's face was blotchy again. "_Go home_! Before Enid starts to worry!"

"Now, Gus, listen. Neville's grown. He can do what he wants —"

"_But_..." She sputtered, her mouth opening and closing a few times — apparently her anger at her brother was affecting her ability to put exactly what she was thinking into words.

"But _nothing_," Algie answered calmly. "He _isn't_ Frank. _Or_ Alice. He's _Neville_. And it's his life."

"He's all that's left of Frank —!"

"But that doesn't _make_ him Frank," Algie responded, rather more gentler than was his usual. "Let him do what he wants. I think he _should_ do something with Herbology — that's what he _likes_. And he's great at it! Have you see that Fluttering Daisy bush you planted outside our door before you left, Nev? It's positively flourishing."

"Herbology is fine for planting a garden, but I'm not sure it's something you could make a living at," Augusta complained. "And he needs to make a living, not... scrape by!"

Neville clenched his fists, mastering the anger that had suddenly flared at her comment. "You can say what you want," he said, his voice shaking slightly, "but I'm not going to do what you want me to, Gran. I'm twenty years old."

"I certainly don't appreciate both of you attacking me at the same time! I'm only trying to help, Neville!"

"We aren't ganging up on you, Gus." Algernon sighed. "You know, I can pay for his flat in London if that's what he —"

"_No_, damn it," Neville snapped, turning to face his uncle, who blinked at the outburst directed against him. "I don't want _any_ help! I can do this on my own!"

"You can't even cut your own hair!" Augusta was eyeing his dark locks, as though she wished to trim them right then.

"Oh, I like it past his neck," Algie interjected, smiling at Neville. "Makes him look older."

"It makes him look like a common _bum_! Thank Merlin it's not below his shoulder blades yet! This is ludicrous." Augusta huffed, deciding to finalize the discussion once and for all. "I'll speak to Enid this evening and have her contact a couple of her friends at the Ministry — perhaps the Minister himself — and arrange an appointment for you to meet with some officials."

Neville put his teacup down so hard that it cracked in two. The sound had the effect of a gunshot, and both his grandmother and great-uncle stared at him. Tea leaked across the linen tablecloth, but Neville ignored it. His eyes met Augusta's, and rather than backing down, he held her furious gaze and said quietly, "No, Gran. I've told you several times now what I'm going to do, and I'm not changing my mind. I'm not going to the Ministry, I'm not taking a job there right now, and I'd appreciate it if you'd stop trying to force me to be my dad. I'm going back to the Leaky Cauldron — if I hurry, I can start looking for a job this afternoon."

Without repairing the teacup, he turned for the brick fireplace at the end of the kitchen, grabbed a little more powder than he normally would have, and was just about to throw it into the fire when Algernon spoke up rather sharply.

"_Neville_."

Neville paused. His great-uncle rarely lost his temper — he much preferred to make jokes and drive people crazy with his infuriatingly easy-going attitude — but when he did get upset, one didn't just storm out of the room. The consequences could be dire. If Gran lost her temper, she would simply take control of the situation and perhaps yell a little, but Uncle Algie wouldn't just yell — he'd tie you up until you stopped throwing the temper and give you a look of cold disappointment that was much worse than Gran's rants.

"This is fine china," Algie said, his voice oddly light and airy — but Neville could hear the underlying anger in his tone, which was slightly chilling. "Dates back five centuries when your great-great-great-grandmother Edwina purchased it in France from some mad old witch, and it's worth money."

Neville scowled over his shoulder, but the scowl faded when he realized his grandmother was looking away, and there were tears on her old cheeks. He had never seen her cry; not even in their visits to St. Mungo's, where she held her head high and proud and boasted about her son and daughter-in-law's conditions to anyone who would listen.

And almost instantly, he seemed to deflate, like a punctured balloon. How had he managed to upset her like this? Why had he let his anger get away with him? Looking at the floor, he lifted his wand slightly and muttered, "_Reparo_." The teacup mended itself, as good as new. Neville waved his wand again, still without looking at his grandmother, and the tea stains on the tablecloth vanished, leaving the linen a dazzling white once more.

"Now," Algie said in a business-like voice, "come back and sit down, and don't run away." A taunting smirk crossed his features. "That's the way of a Slytherin, not a Gryffindor."

Neville flushed. "I'm not running —!"

But Algie cut him off, his eyes flashing. "That's not cheek, is it?"

Neville clamped his mouth shut, stalked back to the table, and sat down, pulling the chair across the floor a little harder than he should have.

Algie's voice became light and pleasant again. "Augusta? You and Neville are not going to see eye to eye on this, no matter what. But it is Neville's decision, and he needs to make it himself, without your help." Before either could speak, he continued, turning his gaze to Neville. "And you. It may be your decision, but you need to think about how it will affect your family, and stop being a right arse about things. Your grandmother is just trying to help you because she loves you." Then, without waiting for a response from either, Algie rose from the table and stretched. "Now, I'm going home — and Gus, don't you dare say anything about that being the best idea I've had so far today, because I won't feel guilty if I have to come back. I want you two to play nicely and work this out like rational adults, yeah?"

With that, he left.

After a long, quiet moment, Neville glanced up guilty at his grandmother. He felt miserable, and to tell the truth, she looked as though she felt as bad as he did. She was staring down into her now-cold tea, and she sniffed heartily. In a muffled voice, she said softly, "Whenever I look at you, I see your parents, Neville. I simply can't help it, I suppose. You have Alice's face and Frank's eyes. I know you hate hearing that, but it's true. However... You...must do what you feel is right for your own life. Algernon is right; I can't force you to do anything. But I do wish you would listen to me. I am only trying to think of your future; of what is best."

Neville was silent for a few moments. Then he admitted quietly, "I don't know where my life is going." He wished the words didn't sound so foolish. "Everyone else has started their lives and I'm a bit late, because I did a world tour instead. But I do know my life isn't at the Ministry right now. I'm not cut out that way. I think... I think I need some time to find myself, and find my path, and then go from there. Does that make sense?"

There was a long pause. Outside, birds were chirping and flittering across the garden, and the lane beyond was damp from the rain, which had finally stopped. The sunlight was starting to come out, a bit weakly, causing the drops on the plants and grass to sparkle.

Augusta murmured, "Yes, I suppose it does make sense. But I want you to stay in touch with me, and let me know how things are going. And if you need us, please let us know. Algernon and I will be more than willing to help you."

Neville stood up, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "I know that, Gran. And if you need me, I want you to send for me. I'll come visit on weekends, I promise."

She smiled weakly at him, and Neville smiled back.

"I have to get back, though." He sighed heavily. "I need to see if that position is still open, and if it's not, I need to think about what to do next."

She nodded, and after a second she gently said, "I am very proud of you, Neville. I do not ever want you to forget that. I know you aren't a little boy anymore, but sometimes I just forget. One of the downfalls of being elderly, I suppose."

Neville swallowed, but no words came out. It meant so much to hear her say how proud she was of him, because she rarely admitted how she felt. So he merely nodded in return and walked back to the fireplace, the Floo powder still in his hand, and tossed it into the flames. The fire turned emerald, and with one last glance behind him, Neville stepped forward and said clearly, "The Leaky Cauldron!"

The flames swirled and whisked him away, leaving Augusta alone in her kitchen.

* * *

By the time he arrived at the Leaky Cauldron, he was surprised at how quiet the establishment was. It was slightly unnerving, especially after having a row with his grandmother and uncle. The combination made him feel hollow, as though he had grow up several years all in a timespan of twenty minutes.

He peered around the doorframe into the pub and saw that the main room was empty, excepting a couple of warlocks at a table in a distant corner, who were smoking pipes and drinking some oily-looking black liquid out of tiny shot glasses. The only other person in the room was a young, thin boy standing behind the counter, wiping the polished wood with a damp dishtowel. The apron he wore was far too big (perhaps because he was so lanky), and Neville could see a dull look in his large eyes.

"Dennis, when you're finished at the bar, you can take a break if you'd like," Hannah's voice called out, and Neville quickly stepped into the shadows of the hall to watch her without being seen. She entered the pub from a door leading towards what he assumed was the kitchen.

Dennis Creevey looked up, but the forced smile he gave Hannah was really quite vacant. The dead look in his eyes was still visible as well, and Neville felt his heart wrench. He'd had years to work through his feelings about his own incapacitated parents, as had Harry, and while the subject was still painful, he knew it was infinitely harder for someone like Dennis to deal with similar feelings of loss. He was so young, he had been the best of friends with his older brother, and it had happened so tragically and so unnecessarily.

"I'm almost done, Miss Hannah," Dennis said quietly, "but I'm okay. I'll start on the tables next."

Hannah put a hand on his shoulder to stop him, but her voice was gentle. "Tell you what. I'll finish in here. We still have an hour before lunch. You go walk through Diagon Alley for a bit, get some fresh air. The rain's stopped and the sun is out. It'll do you some good."

Dennis paused for a moment, as though he thought he should continue working despite Hannah's offer, but after a few tense seconds, he finally nodded. He silently handed her the damp towel and slid out from behind the bar, draped his apron over a nearby chair, and headed for the door that led to the bare courtyard and brick archway. Hannah watched him leave, her expression sad and pitying, before she finished wiping down the bar.

As soon as he was sure Dennis had left, Neville slowly stepped from the hall and cleared his throat.

Hannah looked up instantly. "Neville! I wasn't expecting you back so soon! Is your grandmother well?"

"Yes, she's fine. Thank you for asking." He swallowed and ran a hand behind his neck nervously. "Hannah, er... if you don't mind, I'd like to continue renting my room here for a few days. If that's alright with you, of course."

"You mean, you can stay in it, not rent it," she corrected. "Of course you can stay here."

"No, I meant that I want to rent it."

"Well, I'm afraid you can't rent it. You can stay there, as long as you want, but I won't let you pay for it." She gave him a pretty smile over her shoulder, and he wondered if his knees were going to give way from under him. It was ridiculous that a simple look from a girl could make his body turn to mush. What was _wrong_ with him?

"How are you supposed to make a profit if you give rooms to your old classmates for free?" he argued, ignoring his knees.

"There are plenty of other people who pay for rooms, liquor, and parties." She shrugged, folded the towel neatly, and slipped it on a hidden shelf under the bar. "I'm not going out of business, Neville. I think I can allow you stay in a room, rent-free."

He decided it was best not to continue pursuing the issue, as it didn't appear he was going to win. Instead he said, "Very well, if you insist. But I don't like not paying you for it. I really don't. It isn't fair to you."

She started to argue, but before she could get going, he quickly added, "Harry said there was a little magical plant shop in Diagon Alley...?"

Hannah looked annoyed that he was changing the subject, but said, "Yes, it's all the way at the other end. It's called the Magical Beans. It's a neat little place."

"Do you know who maintains it?"

"Digby Bancroft. He opened it about two months ago."

"Thanks. I'm heading that way. To see if he needs any help," he explained. "If he'll hire me, I mean. Harry thought he might."

Hannah's face lit up, and she eagerly said, "That's wonderful! Oh, good luck! I'm sure he'll take you on — he mentioned a few days ago when he stopped in here for lunch that he needed an assistant! And you would be just perfect for the job, I know you would!"

Neville smiled back at her. Two minutes earlier, he had been nervous, but somehow, seeing her face look so radiant helped his nerves and made him feel a bit calmer. He was great at Herbology — Professor Sprout had said so many times. Surely this Digby Bancroft would hire him if he hadn't filled the position already. So he said, "Thanks. I'll be back for dinner, okay?"

"I'll fix something special," she said, with a hint of teasing in her voice.

He flushed slightly at the implication, before hurrying out to the back courtyard before he made a fool of himself around Hannah. Once there, standing amongst the rubbish bins and weeds, he took a deep breath and tapped the third brick in the wall.

And as the gateway opened, his first reaction was complete shock.

He well remembered going to Diagon Alley before his sixth year at Hogwarts. Back then, there had been seedy, dirty carts with torn awnings; scum salesmen had been selling junk that promised to ward off evil and protect against harm, but likely did nothing of the sort, and most wizards and witches had been hurrying about with haggard, anxious, worried faces. Shops had been closed up and people were nervous as they made their ways to those establishments still open for business. There had been Ministry posters showing known Death Eaters, while giving instructions to stay safe, and the very pavement had been filthy and littered with trash.

But now, Diagon Alley was entirely different. It resembled the place he remembered as a child. The bright, jewel-tone colors were back, including the gold-gilt shop fronts and the dazzling window displays. There were hanging baskets and window boxes overflowing with flowers. There were new stores he'd never seen before, having replaced the boarded up, closed ones from the war. Adults were chatting in front of windows while holding bags full of shopping, while children ran back and forth over the cobblestones, playing tag or gawping at broomsticks in Quality Quidditch Supplies or begging their parents for an ice cream sundae.

It was into this world Neville stepped forward, looking in awe at new signs hanging over buildings, and glancing at the towering, blinding monolith that was Gringotts. All around him, people were happy and cheerful — it was uplifting and made him a bit giddy.

Just past the bank however, the feeling of giddiness wore off slightly. Unexpectedly, a young woman stepped in front of him, her eyes wide and her hands clasped together at her chest, while her long blonde hair swayed over her shoulder and she beamed at him. He stumbled to a halt, feeling as though he had just swallowed something wriggly. There were awful scars on her face; they were visible and puckered, marring what had once been flawless beauty, and with an unpleasant jolt he had a flash of memory of the Battle of Hogwarts.

Eagerly, she exclaimed, "Neville! We _knew_ you were approaching! Parvati saw you in the crystal ball only a moment ago! We haven't seen you in ages! What on earth have you been up to?"

Neville stammered incoherently, but Lavender Brown ignored him and prattled on.

"You simply _must_ come inside. We can do a reading for you if you want; with the cards or the crystal ball or the tealeaves — I just put on a fresh pot. And if you need anything like amulets or power gems we have all types and sizes and cuts! We just got a shipment in this morning, as a matter of fact!"

"Oh... that's... well..." Neville swallowed and edged backwards a couple of steps. He hated Divinitation; bloody subject should have been banned years ago, and he didn't understand how anyone could enjoy it. "That's very kind, Lavender. But I'm headed down to another shop, actually. I'll stop by later? Please tell Parvati I said hello. It was nice to see you again."

Lavender looked disappointed and a bit miffed, and Neville had a foreboding feeling that she was going to start arguing or else drag him bodily into the little shop; he could see the sign hanging over the door displaying the palm of a hand with bright glowing lines and stars etched around it, and the lettering over the top read, "Fortunes and Futures Unveiled", with a list at the bottom of all the services offered. Before she had the chance to call Parvati out or complain that he was being unfair, Neville detached himself politely and hurried on down the street, not daring a glance back in case he saw Lavender's familiar scowl when things did not go her way.

A few buildings later however, he caught sight of the bright, whirling window displays of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes — flashes of glittering light and color made his head spin. From what he could tell, the shop was packed with kids, and even more were dragging their parents towards the door or the windows. Neville decided he would stop by later when the crowd was thin and he could make his way through the store to visit Ron and George. As it was, it looked impossible to even get in the door! But then, it was almost September, so it was no wonder that Hogwarts students were crowding into the place to stock up before returning to school.

He was almost at the end of Diagon Alley when he saw what he was really looking for — a tiny, narrow shop set between two larger buildings. The sign hanging over the door read "Magical Beans" and from what he could see of the two front windows, the shop was crammed with a variety of magical plants. A sign attached to the window in the door read, "Help Wanted, Apply Within".

Neville took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The shop was so full it was hard to move around. It smelled of earth, and was hot and humid. For a few seconds, he stood just over the threshold, gazing around fondly at all the plants, inhaling the familiar scents that he loved so much. He could barely make out a counter, which had some bright gold and pink flowers spilling from a large pot. There were flowers and plants hanging from the ceiling down in front of the windows, rows and shelves of flowers in pots, green plants in pots, dead-looking plants in pots, and a couple of odd shaped stumps in a corner that were pulsating slightly.

Then suddenly there was a sneaky movement over his shoulder, and Neville ducked and quickly skirted towards the counter before a long vine could make its way around his body. He glanced up at it with some annoyance — there were several long, innocent looking vines trailing over the door from a plant hanging from the high ceiling. He recognized it as a Choker Vine, commonly planted by wizarding entryways to prevent intruders from breaking into homes.

"Oh! Hi, I'm so sorry. I didn't hear you come in. Can I help you?"

Neville turned to face the counter and saw a young man with a mop of dirty-blonde hair and glasses that framed green-gray eyes. He was placing the pot full of dirt on the countertop; he then pushed the glasses up his nose automatically, as if it were more of a habit than a necessity. His hands were a bit black with soil, and there was a smudge on his cheek, obscuring a couple of freckles.

"Hi. Neville Longbottom," Neville said. He offered his hand out. "I noticed —"

But he didn't get any further; the young man was gaping at him and had immediately grasped his hand, only to start shaking it enthusiastically. "Neville _Longbottom_? Fought in the Battle of Hogwarts two years ago, defied You-Know-Who to his face? Killed some snake You-Know-Who had as a pet or something? _The_ Neville Longbottom?"

Neville stammered, "Well... yes... but..."

"Wow, such an honor! Never thought I'd get to meet you! Heard all about you, of course — quite impressed to say the least. Digby Bancroft," he added quickly. "I finished four years ago from Hogwarts. I do vaguely remember you from the mass of students, I think. You were in Gryffindor, right? A bit quiet, if memory serves? I was in Ravenclaw myself, stuck mostly to the library or the greenhouses — Professor Sprout was always a brick letting me hang out there and study some of the more interesting plants, the ones we rarely discussed in class, you know. So... what can I help you with? Need a specialty plant, or something more normal?"

"Actually, I noticed your sign on the door, and I'd heard you needed some help. I'm looking for a job, so I was wondering..."

Digby blinked. After a couple of seconds he spluttered, "You want a job _here_?"

"Well, yes... I was hoping to apply. If the position isn't filled already."

"No! No, of course not, I haven't had anyone interested at all." Digby was still staring as though he couldn't quite process what he was hearing. "But why would you want to work _here_? I mean, you're quite incredible from the stories I've heard. A real talent at Defense. I always thought you would be working —"

"At the Ministry?" Neville finished the question, and then shook his head. "No. It's really not my thing. I love plants though," he added, looking around happily. "If you want, you can contact Professor Sprout as a reference. I had special permission to use the greenhouses, too. And I would really love to work here, if you need the help and I pass your application or interview."

Digby positively beamed back at him. "No need to write her at all, actually," he said, and an unexpected, shrewd look seemed to flicker in his eyes. "Watched you dodge the Choker Vine as you came in. You knew exactly how to avoid it. I've had to throttle it to get it off some of my customers who never see it coming. It's a sneaky little bugger. Poor thing; no one wants to take it home because it's so cantankerous, so it just stays there and it seems happy enough." He refocused. "So — you like Herbology, then?"

"It was my favorite subject at school."

"Mine, too. Obviously," Digby said, his voice conversational and light. "Started this little shop a couple of months ago. I do fairly good business; I've been very pleased so far with the amount of customers that come in. I'm surprised at the number of people who want to buy a plant or even ask questions on the handling something they aren't familiar with. What was your O.W.L. grade?"

"Outstanding."

"And your N.E.W.T.?"

"The same."

Digby's mouth curved upwards. "Can you start tomorrow?"

"I'd love to."

"Excellent!" Digby moved around the counter, shaking Neville's hand again, briefly. He snatched the sign out of the door window and added, "I'll just give you the brief tour then?"

"Great." Neville smiled. A weight had seemed to lift from his stomach, replaced by fluttering excitement.

He had a job.


	4. Life in Diagon Alley

**Life in Diagon Alley**

* * *

It was late afternoon when Neville returned to the Leaky Cauldron from the Magical Beans, and he found it completely deserted except for Hannah, who was rearranging bottles of liquor behind the bar. In the late summer sunlight streaming in through the thick windowpanes, the bottles were almost blinding; their amber, yellow, red, black, gold, brown, purple, and clear liquids shone like warm colors of metal heated in fire.

As he approached the bar, Hannah looked around, smiled, and asked eagerly, "Well? How did it go?"

Neville returned the smile, albeit a bit tiredly. Digby had dragged him all over the shop and had shown him everything; it had been a little overwhelming, especially when coupled with the fact that he had spat with his grandmother earlier that morning and had been involved in a duel the night before. More than anything right now, he really needed a good night's sleep.

"It went great," he told her. "I start work tomorrow."

Hannah cried out happily, leaned over the counter without warning, and hugged him around the neck. Then, as though she realized what she had done, she released him just as quickly. The brief contact left Neville momentarily stunned; his body seemed tense and he could hear an odd humming in his ears. He found himself wishing that she hadn't let go, or that the counter hadn't been between them.

Hannah must have been embarrassed, because her cheeks had turned bright pink. As though to bypass the moment and move forward, she quickly said, "So... um... What will you be doing for Digby at the shop?"

"Helping in the shop," he said, trying to collect his thoughts. "I'll be helping customers with questions about magical plants, selling the ones available, and helping Digby cultivate others in the greenhouse out back when I have spare time."

"That sounds really lovely," Hannah said, crossing her arms on the wooden counter and gazing at him. Her eyes and voice were warm, and Neville wondered if it wasn't just the sun that was making the back of his neck feel so hot. She continued, "I'm really glad he hired you so quickly. Not that I'm surprised. You'll be fantastic there; I just know it. You were always so good at Herbology in school."

Neville focused on his opaque reflection in the polish on the wooden counter before finally finding his voice again. Telling her he had obtained the job had been easy. The second part would be a lot harder.

"Listen, Hannah. I didn't get a chance to look for an apartment this afternoon, and Digby indicated that there weren't any flats in Diagon Alley for rent at the moment. And he can't take me in above his shop because the upstairs is just too small."

He cleared his throat, trying how best to approach the question. It had been a hard decision for him to make after he left Digby's shop. He had contemplated it as he walked back through Diagon Alley (keeping a wide berth of Lavender and Parvati's shop), while he rode the breakneck journey down to his family's Gringotts vault and extracted some gold, and as he stood in front of a mirror at Madam Malkin's being fitted for new robes to replace the ones he had worn to threads on his world tour. Even now, he wasn't sure if it was the right decision or not.

When he'd asked Digby about a place to stay, his new employer explained that, unfortunately, there was hardly any room above the Magical Beans; the living space the came with the shop was barely big enough for Digby himself. To make matters more complicated, Diagon Alley had become so popular since the end of the war that there were no flats currently available. The few flats in the surrounding area of Muggle London were also mysteriously disappearing as wizards and witches branched out, hoping to find a place nearby. Neville didn't like the idea of living in close proximity to Muggles regardless, because there was always the chance he would slip up and use magic around them, and so, he decided he only had two remaining options available to him.

The first was living with his grandmother and Apparating or Flooing into work each day. This would put him directly in the line of fire for catching all sorts of sniffs, glances, and discussions from Gran — good or bad — and it would keep him from seeing his friends and rekindling friendships as much as he was hoping to.

The second option was to ask Hannah if he could keep living at the Leaky Cauldron — if she could spare him a room with the number of guests she had coming in on a daily basis.

Granted, it was true that Hannah made his knees buckle and his brain turn off whenever he looked at her (and especially when he caught _her_ looking at _him_), but it was really all in a good sort of way — a way he hadn't experienced with other girls before. The Gryffindor girls in his house had never quite attracted him this way. It wasn't that they hadn't been pretty, but they had always been paired up with other blokes, or they hadn't been interested in him. Neville knew it would be difficult for him to live in the Leaky Cauldron and see Hannah all the time, but he had decided that it was worth it — all of it — seeing his friends, living in a new era and enjoying what he was good at, and getting to know her better, too. Maybe he would become less nervous if he were around her more frequently. That would be helpful.

If she'd allow him stay, that was.

Hannah was smirking at him. "You want to continue staying here?" she teased, as though she had read his mind.

He felt heat rising up his neck again. "Well, yes. I was hoping if you didn't mind... I mean, if you can spare the room. I'll pay you weekly," he added, with a trace of hope in his voice.

"We've already had this discussion. I won't let you pay me. But yes, you can keep staying in your room. It isn't like there aren't plenty of other rooms here for guests. How long do you want it?"

"That's just it. I, uh... well, I don't know yet. That's a very vague answer, isn't it? I am sorry. But there aren't any flats available in Diagon Alley and I don't want to live in Muggle London."

"Vague, yes. But it doesn't mean that it bothers me." Her lips curved upward in amusement.

"But I will pay you."

"No, you won't."

"Hannah —"

"It's my establishment now, and I decide if you pay or not. And you aren't paying me for a room, so that's that."

"I can't do that!" he spluttered.

"Which one of us was in Hufflepuff?" she said suddenly, her eyes narrowing at him.

The question caught him off guard. "What does that have to do with anything?" he asked, frowning at her.

"Answer the question."

"You, but —"

"And if you'll recall," she went on, cutting him off, "one of the qualities that exemplifies Hufflepuff house is _stubbornness_."

"That _isn't_ true — it was loyalty, hard-working, fairness..."

"Just because the Sorting Hat doesn't sing it out for the world to hear doesn't mean it isn't true. We joked about it in the common room all the time! And I'm _very_ stubborn, so you aren't paying."

He couldn't help chuckling as a thought from his childhood drifted back to him. He had been sitting on the stool in front of the entire Great Hall, rigid with terror as the Sorting Hat mused in his ear, listing the qualities it saw in him and debating which house to put him in. "I was _almost_ in Hufflepuff," he admitted. Oh yes, the hat had considered it a distinct possibility — at the time, Neville had been absolutely stunned when he heard the hat yell "Gryffindor!" for the entire Hall to hear. It was why he'd ran off to the Gryffindor table _wearing_ the Hat, and had to go back to the stool and take it off, amidst the gales of laughter that made him feel even more ridiculously embarrassed than before.

"_Almost_ doesn't count. I _was_ in Hufflepuff, and _you_ were in Gryffindor. I win."

He couldn't help laughing at the absurdity of the discussion. He hadn't had such a silly conversation in ages, and it felt incredibly relaxing and light-hearted. "All right," he conceded. "You win."

"Good. And, as a noble Gryffindor," she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder, "_you_ can protect me if something bad happens."

She meant it lightly, in the same tone as everything that had been said previously, but several things clicked at once in Neville's head. He remembered what his grandmother had said that morning, about considering his future and the possibility of supporting a family. He hadn't thought much of it at the time as they had been arguing about a bigger issue, but suddenly the idea of protecting Hannah from danger created several dizzying blurred scenes of fantasy in his mind. He saw Dark wizards approaching and he was blasting them while Hannah clung to him desperately, her soft body up against his. He saw Dementors gliding forward even though he knew Shacklebolt had banished them, and he cast a Patronus just in time to save Hannah's life... He saw Death Eaters bursting in and he was handling the situation without any help, fighting three at once, and Hannah was kissing him feverishly afterwards and saying what a wonderful wizard he was, and how talented... and then they were stumbling up the narrow, rickety stairs, and she was sliding the buttons of his shirt open, her soft fingers skimming his chest and sliding lower while her mouth fused to his...

"Neville, are you all right?"

He jolted back to reality with the unpleasant realization that he was clammy and hot. And he knew for a fact that this time, it had absolutely nothing to do with the afternoon sunlight streaming in behind him. Hannah was looking at him with a confused expression; he felt his pulse beating hard behind his ears, and he could hear every fast, awful throb sending fire through his body to areas that made him thankful he was wearing robes.

"Fine," he said hastily. "I'm fine, I just... Listen, thanks... for, uh... letting me stay here." Even as he said it, he knew if he were thinking what he had just thought, things would only spiral more out of control the longer he was around her, and he would be taking a lot of cold showers and wanking off before going to bed every night. Flushing, he said, "I should take my things upstairs and get washed for dinner."

And without waiting for a response, he grabbed his packages containing his new robes from the floor and hurried out of the room.

Hannah remained behind the bar, staring after Neville's retreating figure as he disappeared up the stairs. For several incredibly long seconds, his entire face had glazed over, as though he had been Petrified — except for his eyes, which had been bright and dark and hot all at the same time. She had watched several unidentifiable emotions flicker in them, and while she watched, she had felt heat pooling in her stomach and suppressed a sudden, mad desire to jump the counter and drag him off the barstool upstairs, though she had no earthly idea why the urge had been so unexplainably intense or, why it had even happened at all!

And then he'd simply run out, as though he were embarrassed about something, though she'd no idea why he should be embarrassed. _She_ was the one having randy thoughts, after all. Had she said something that had upset him? Perhaps it was the hug, she thought, biting her lip nervously. She hadn't meant to do it, but she had been so happy that he'd found a job that she had hugged him out of sheer impulse. She tended to let her emotions guide her most of the time, and she had always been one to give hugs out without thought when she'd been in school. Hugs always made things better: they made sad times easier and happy times happier. But for the grand total of four seconds while her arms around his neck had given her a new perspective; one that made her skin tingle. His hair had smelt of sweet, fresh earth and something more masculine but indefinable, like wood and spices mixed together, and the warmth of his skin and body had seeped up her arms, the way Butterbeer did. Then there had been the playful banter, the teasing, the laughter. It had felt so natural.

Maybe he had been offended by her remark about protecting her? Perhaps he was upset that he had lost consciousness the night before while fighting, and didn't feel he was up to protecting someone else just yet? Oh drat and blast, how could she have said something so tactless and stupid? It wasn't as though she couldn't protect herself (that certainly hadn't been why she suggested it)! Working in the Leaky Cauldron was hardly a job for someone who wasn't prepared to fight if a situation arose, and she was no sissy. Once, that complete arse Zacharias Smith had mentioned that it would be much better if she had a strong man helping out at the inn and pub. She had tried to argue that she was perfectly capable of handling herself and her inn, but she'd been cut off by the arrogant remark that while he was sure she did fine on her own for the most part, there were in fact just _some things_ women were unable to do as well as men. At the time, the idea that she was inferior to a man _simply_ because she was a woman had infuriated her to the point that she had cast a hex without thinking, and sent him howling from the inn with hives bursting all over his skin. Why, then, did the idea of Neville protecting her make her feel giddy and excited, as though she _wanted_ to be just the slightest bit unable to handle things?

She knew the truth, and as the first few dinner guests entered the pub laughing and talking, it danced tauntingly through her mind. She was incredibly attracted to Neville Longbottom. Hell, it was as though she was in her fourth year once more, and had a crush on Cedric Diggory all over again.

She pushed the thought resolutely to the back of her mind. She had dinner guests to serve, and she couldn't daydream about Neville while she had a bar to maintain. She put on a smile and began to pour drinks as several male palms slapped the wooden counter, eager for alcohol to take the edge off a long day.

* * *

But unfortunately, over the next few weeks, Hannah saw more of Neville in her dreams than in her daily life. Which, she thought with some bitterness, was also a lot like how her crush with Diggory had turned out.

Every day was the same. Neville came downstairs to breakfast, ate quickly, and always commented that the food was excellent — which always pleased her. But before she could strike up a conversation, he would leave to go to work, and she would find herself alone with her part-time help, the giddy feeling fading away. There was also the looming reminder that Dennis would be leaving for Hogwarts soon, and that thought ate at the part of her brain not obsessed with Neville. But while she washed dishes and cleaned tables, or straightened the empty parlors and entertained special guests, her mind would always drift into daydreams.

Daydreams where she and Neville were sprawled on a couch in the parlor before a blazing fire, twisted so much that they would likely never get out of the position; mouths locked hotly and hands roaming eagerly. Or her being brazen enough to go into Neville's room after the pub closed, only to find him awake and sitting in an armchair in front of glowing, red embers, and the smile on his face telling her that he wanted her there and had been expecting her. She would cross to where he sat and sink into his lap — her hands would press into the strong muscles of his chest, stroke his jaw and twine into his soft, thick hair. She would inhale that heady, earthy, spicy scent she had cottoned on to when she'd hugged him in the bar.

If she were lucky, she would be alone when she started thinking about such things, and she could catch herself before anyone else noticed. She'd bitterly wonder why, as of late, no other boy made her dream the way Neville did. When she had been at Hogwarts, she had always dreamed of various boys kissing her in a secretive classroom, hiding from the teachers and Filch. And sure, she had actually found herself pinned in a broom closet by a seventh year during her fourth year, and she'd snuck off with a few boys in her fifth and early on in her sixth year, before her mother's death. But this... This was wild, almost insane; in such a way that it made her feel as though she were flying so high she couldn't see the ground. And she hadn't even _kissed_ Neville!

But then, when the day ended and the sun started setting, Neville would return to the pub, and go up to his room to fresh up, after smiling apologetically and telling her that no flats had opened up in Diagon Alley yet. This news always made her happy, because it meant he would continue staying at the Leaky Cauldron. It was getting to the point that, at sundown, she would start feeling anxious of his return because knew she would be disappointed if he came in and told her that he'd found a new place to stay.

It wasn't until the end of July before she realized he had somehow coerced Dennis into allowing him to secretly put extra Galleons into the cash register to pay for his food and board; she'd been so busy with customers that she hadn't even really noticed. She was surprised that she wasn't as angry as she'd originally thought she would be. Gryffindors were chivalrous to a fault, so she pretended she didn't know about the money and decided that the whole thing made him even more attractive.

When the first of September came around however, Hannah's thoughts were effectively distracted at last. It was time for Dennis leave, and not even Neville could replace the hole in her heart at Dennis's departure.

It was a bittersweet sort of morning. After the breakfast guests had disappeared into Diagon Alley or gone home, Hannah stepped outside into Charing Cross Road and greeted Mr. Creevey as he parked on the side of the road and came to the door. He was a small, balding man with a sad smile, who thanked her for allowing his youngest son to work at her establishment for the summer. Hannah led him inside, reminding him that it was no trouble at all, and Dennis came clunking downstairs with his school trunk and his wand, a dead look in his hollowed eyes. She quickly went over and hugged him, and he hugged back. She felt his Adam's apple bob on her shoulder; he had swallowed to keep from crying.

"You take care of yourself," she said softly. "I'll write to you every week, all right?"

Dennis nodded faintly. "Thanks for letting me work here, Hannah. Can I... Can I come back next summer?"

"If you don't have a better offer, of course you can." She smiled, waved her wand at his trunk, and directed it towards the door.

Mr. Creevey held the door and caught the end of the trunk; Dennis caught the other end and they ducked outside. Hannah stood at the door of the pub while they loaded the trunk into the boot of the car, and she waved sadly to Dennis as he and his father drove off into traffic for King's Cross.

Watching Dennis leave was painful, because he had been such a part of her life that summer. It wouldn't be hard to find another part-time helper, but that wasn't why she'd actually hired him in the first place. Dennis needed to heal, and she understood that — after all, she had been forced to deal with the same emotions of losing someone she loved, too. She hadn't wanted him to shut out the wizarding world just because Colin had died fighting for the rights of Muggle-borns. Colin wouldn't want his brother to turn his back on their heritage just because of that; it would negate why Colin had stayed behind at Hogwarts in the first place.

She turned back into the empty pub, her eyes roaming over the ashes in the fireplaces that needed to be cleaned out and the chairs that had been shoved roughly against tables. It would be another two hours before the lunch crowd came in. She slowly moved behind the bar, brushing her fingertips over the taps of mead, knowing she would need to start cleaning, but not really having the heart to begin.

The door opened again at that moment, and Hannah glanced up, expecting to see someone passing through into Diagon Alley. But instead, a young witch stepped inside, pulling a scarf from around her head. She caught sight of Hannah and smiled.

"Susan!" Hannah hurried around the bar, a small balloon of happiness buoying within her, even in the wake of Dennis's departure. Her best friend caught her in a brief, one-armed hug.

"I thought I'd drop by; I knew Dennis was leaving this morning and I thought you might be lonely," Susan Bones said, her voice sympathetic.

"A little," Hannah admitted. "Why aren't you at work?"

"I was. But they gave us a thirty minute break before the next trial starts."

"More Death Eaters?"

"No, not today. We haven't had any Death Eaters in nearly a month, actually." She sighed and rubbed her temple with two fingers before complaining, "No, this morning it was some grungy, petty thief. Apparently he was caught breaking into an old witch's house and she lost her temper and started hexing him to oblivion and back. The Catastrophe Squad said he looked like an oozing blob of muck when they arrived, and Minister Shacklebolt said he's had enough with this Fletcher person. He sentenced him to two months at Azkaban for a combination of silly little crimes, even though the bum was in the Order of the Phoenix during the war, apparently! Did I tell you that he was in the courts two weeks ago for trying to sell biting doorknobs to Muggles? It's a nightmare; an absolute nightmare."

"I didn't think you were supposed to talk about the trials," Hannah teased.

Susan had landed a job at the Ministry as a court reporter — her aunt's legacy had helped, and Hannah expected Susan to move up quickly within a couple of years. The Minister of Magic had already expressed interest in her obsessive organization skills and her ability to take very detailed notes on the trials she documented.

Susan grinned sheepishly. "I'm not. So don't tell anyone I told you." Then she said, "So. I haven't seen you in days! What's new here?"

Hannah shrugged. "Not much. Dennis left this morning, so I'll have to put another advertisement in the _Daily Prophet_ to see if I can't find someone to take his shift."

Susan looked thoughtful for a few moments, and then said, "What about Neville Longbottom? He was looking for a job, wasn't he? Or did he find one? I don't even remember; it's been so busy at the Ministry."

Hannah's face turned slightly pink. "Oh. Yes, he found one. He's working at the Magical Beans, all the way at the other end of Diagon Alley."

"Oh." Susan's brow furrowed. "Did he find a flat yet?"

"No, not yet." The pink tinge deepened, and to Hannah's annoyance, Susan noticed. She could tell by the way her friend started smirking, and the mischievous look in her dark eyes.

"And you don't want him to find one, do you?"

"Oh, honestly. Why shouldn't he find a flat? Who would want to live at an inn for months?" Hannah flounced behind the counter to dig out some clean glasses for the lunch crowd.

Susan leaned over the counter and looked down at her. "You _like_ him, don't you?"

When Hannah didn't reply, Susan mused, "Well, he isn't arrogant like that idiot McLaggen, or an arse like Zacharias. He's fairly good looking, I suppose, and he's always been a gentleman. By the way, Zacharias mentioned to Ernie yesterday that he was going to ask you to go out with him whenever he's in here next, and Ernie wanted to make sure I warned you."

Hannah stood up, looking sour. "If Zacharias comes in here and so much as looks at me, I swear I'll hex his fat arse right off!"

"Unless Neville saves you the trouble," Susan teased.

"He doesn't like me that way."

"How do you know?"

"Well, because! I just know! He... I mean..."

Susan cut her off. "He's still here, isn't he?"

"Only because there aren't any available flats in Diagon Alley or London!"

"Or maybe," Susan interrupted again, "he just wants to stay here. Near _you_."

Hannah could feel the heat in her cheeks. "I highly doubt that he wants to stay here just because of _me_."

"In that case, he could just be using you, because you're still not charging him rent."

Hannah twisted her fingers together nervously and didn't meet Susan's eyes directly. "Well... uh.. actually? He's been slipping money in the till whenever I'm not looking. For his food and board."

"_What_?"

"I haven't said anything because it would upset him if he found out that I know. He only wants to make things right! What's so wrong about that?"

Susan made a noise of amused surprised. "He must _really_ like you. He probably stays awake half the night, fantasizing about you being in bed with him."

Hannah felt her stomach drop. Trying to save face, she rolled her eyes and hissed, "You're really enjoying teasing me, aren't you?"

"I just never pictured you with a Gryffindor, that's all! Not that it's a bad thing. I just always imagined you with Justin while we were in school, or —"

Hannah grumbled, "Justin's just a friend. I can't get excited about him, you know? He's just a mate."

"But Neville?"

When she didn't reply, Susan's grin broadened.

"Don't tell me! Are you having fantasies about him?"

Hannah smacked her with the damp dishtowel she'd picked up from the bar to clean the glasses. "Get back to your trials, Sue, before I hex you, too!"

Susan burst into laughter. "I can't believe this! You want to shag him ragged, don't you?"

Hannah sputtered, but no words came out. The very idea of shagging Neville Longbottom _ragged_ made her body go numb. She knew the truth to that question, and it appeared Susan did to, by her wickedly delighted expression. Hannah groaned and closed her eyes, pressing her palms to them as if she had a bad hangover.

"If you want him," Susan said smugly, "you'd better hurry up and tell him you're interested. I hear Lavender and Parvati have been positively attacking him whenever he walks by their place."

The worst part of this comment was that it caused Hannah to experience a surge of unfounded jealousy. She was perfectly aware that Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil were obsessed with Neville. They came in randomly for lunch, and over the past couple of weeks they had always managed to turn their conversation onto the subject of Neville whenever Hannah least expected it. They purred over his looks — how he was the strong, silent type and how the faded scars on his face were so attractive because it showed how brave he had been in the war. It was revolting, Hannah thought, because she knew while they had been in school, neither of them had been remotely interested in Neville. And yet, the very idea of watching Lavender or Parvati twine around Neville made her stomach turn.

"Furthermore," Susan continued, jarring Hannah from her unsettling thoughts, "I hear a lot of other girls have noticed him, too. Loretta Cornhill and Amelia Fittleworth were talking about him yesterday at work in the Records department. One of them saw him a few days ago while she was getting some owl treats at the Emporium. They're obsessed. _He's ruggedly handsome and so sweet and kind! I'd just die if he asked me out!_" It's like he's the new lead singer of the Weird Sisters or something."

"So what do you suggest I do?" Hannah asked sourly.

Susan tied the scarf under her chin and turned for the door, grinning over her shoulder. "I suggest you sneak into his bedroom tonight. Give him the shag of his life and see what happens."

"I can't do that!" Hannah yelled after her.

The only reply she received was the door of the pub banging shut.

* * *

Despite Hannah's frustrations and Susan's teasing — both of which were unbeknownst to Neville — September went by in a blur. The late summer days turned to autumn. Leaves changed to gold, red, and brown, and a cool breeze played through Diagon Alley whenever shoppers least expected it. Life had become a lull, as though a calm before the expected storms that would blow in as October and November rolled around.

Approaching late autumn storms were at the back of Neville Longbottom's mind, however. For the first time in a very long time, he was happy, and had very few worries. His tasks at the plant shop were enjoyable and kept his Herbology skills sharp. Customers liked him. Fourteen times he'd been asked for his autograph — something that amazed him, but which he gave willingly. Digby was pleased with his work and was quickly becoming a good friend, despite the fact that they had been in separate houses and years while at school.

And when he wasn't throttling the Choker Vine that had come to live near the ceiling of the Magical Beans, Neville was meeting some old friend or another. He seemed to be attracting a lot of attention, which quite frankly baffled him — people he didn't even know were always waving at him with friendly expressions. But he was always glad when he ran into an old classmate.

The first time Ron Weasley had seen him, he'd hurried out of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes to greet Neville loudly and enthusiastically. George Weasley had lost his patience (or perhaps he was merely being his usual sadistic self), for just as Ron was within five feet of Neville, he'd seemingly tripped and fallen flat on his face on the cobbled street, as if hit with a Leg-Locker Curse. Neville had tried to help him, but before he could lift the curse off Ron, he glimpsed George at the door of the joke shop, with a maniacal glint in his eyes and a smirk curving the corner of his mouth as he jerked his wand straight up. Ron went flying backwards to the shop on his stomach, as though his feet had been lassoed, his hands clawing at the pavement to try and stop himself.

The morning shoppers gathered about had howled with laughter, and even Neville had had trouble concealing a grin. George loudly complained that he would have to find some other source of help since his little brother didn't seem to be keen on developing a serious work ethic, and Ron had gotten to his feet in record time when the curse came off, shouting obscenities at George that made several elderly witches in the general area gasp, "_Really!_" before hurrying on. George retaliated by casting another jinx, and Ron's voice was magically cut off. The remaining twin seemed to be rather enjoying himself, and after he'd said a hearty hello to Neville (while shoving Ron back into the shop), Neville had hurried on to work to avoid causing Ron any further trouble.

Much less amusing were Lavender and Parvati, who had an unnerving ability of appearing when Neville least expected or wanted them. Lavender flirted shamelessly, and desperately tried to get him to come into their shop for a reading. He had a bad feeling that said reading would contain tidings of his future love life and how he would be unable to live without a certain former-Gryffindor-housemate-turned-Divinitation-Specialist, so he always refused with some excuse that left Lavender looking annoyed. Parvati was just as bad — while she didn't summon Neville the way George had pulled Ron back to the joke shop, she did appear in places he least expected to see her, and always hinted that her crystal ball showed him quite frequently.

On the other hand, Dean Thomas was always a welcome sight. He was working as a liaison at Gringotts, and Neville saw him when he went to cash his paycheque or extract some gold. So far he had been dragged to various pubs four times with Dean after work, where they had met up with Seamus, who was working as a publicist for the Kenmare Kestrels. Neville quickly discovered that once Dean and Seamus had a few shots of Firewhisky they were slightly wilder than usual, and they had a knack for picking up the hottest girls in any bar — Muggle _or_ Wizard.

Neville always declined their offers for a hook-up, though he was hardly conscious of doing it. The first girl they'd ever suggested Neville go out with looked like a complete slag, and Neville couldn't possibly picture _talking_ to her, let alone doing half the possibilities Seamus was shamelessly suggesting. She certainly didn't possess the down-to-earth quality that...say, Hannah, had.

The next two girls had laughs like banshees. Why couldn't they have a pleasant, sweet, teasing giggle like Hannah's? He loved Hannah's laugh, he'd thought dreamily, as the girls had all but climbed into Seamus and Dean's laps. Neville ordered another pint in hopes that the laughter might sound less painful once he was slightly sloshed.

It didn't.

The fourth girl they pointed out was taller than he was and not at all good-looking, and Neville found himself thinking how Hannah was just the right height next to him, not to mention beautiful. He ordered another pint as his mind drifted, imagining her greeting him as he returned after the long night pub-crawling with his friends and taking the edge off things a lot better than the Firewhisky did. In the meantime, Seamus took the girl out on the dance floor, and Dean started to flirt with a woman who had just approached the bar in a dress that left little to the imagination. Neville was blissfully unaware of either.

It was on his fifth night out with Dean and Seamus that Neville realized he was constantly thinking about Hannah. He supposed then that it would be best if he didn't go out as much, so he wouldn't compare other girls to her, but Dean and Seamus wouldn't take no for an answer if they wanted his company. So while they attracted girls, Neville sat at the bar, gazing into his drink and wondering if Hannah could possibly like him as more than a friend.

Fortunately, when he wasn't out with Seamus and Dean, he discovered he was seeing a lot of Harry, Ron, and Hermione at the Leaky Cauldron. The trio ate there at least once a week after work, and if they saw Neville, he was always hailed to join them. They were a lot less riotous than Seamus and Dean, not nearly as clingy and disturbing as Lavender and Parvati, and always included him in their conversations, which ranged from the serious and deep to the silly and crazy. Every so often Ginny would join them, depending on whether or not she had a game that week, and she would always pull out Luna Lovegood's latest letter to read aloud, for the amusement and entertainment of the entire group.

The best thing about hanging out with Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny was that Neville didn't have to listen to discussions on how he should find a girl for a single night and forget her the next day, nor did he have to worry about them pointing out every female that walked by the table, suggesting he date her. He could be himself around Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, and he was grateful for their company on those nights he stayed at the Leaky Cauldron for dinner.

Of course, he also ran into other students — other Gryffindors outside his year, and Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, and the occasional Slytherin. The Hufflepuff students made him the most nervous, since he was staying at the Leaky Cauldron, and they all seemed to be very aware of it and slightly protective of their housemate. Susan Bones had passed him in the bar one night during the first week of October, and gave him an appraising, yet haughty look that confused him. He knew she was Hannah's best friend and he was almost glad Susan was spending so much of her free time at the inn. It kept Neville from being near Hannah most of the time, and especially from being alone with her. Because he wasn't sure what would happen if he were. It was bad enough staying awake half the night, knowing she was almost directly above him, and thinking erotic fantasies about having her in bed with him, doing all the things Seamus kept talking so freely about while under the influence of alcohol.

Then came the inevitable day the second week of October that the truth of how he really felt hit him in the gut with the force of a well-placed curse.

He had asked Digby if he could go to lunch early, so he could return to the shop and assist a scheduled customer that afternoon with some difficult questions about a Poisonous Yellowthorne Bush. He knew the Leaky Cauldron would be fairly empty at 11:30, and he wondered if Hannah would join him for lunch like she had the last time he had come in early, and if they would have their usual pleasant conversation (with the familiar tingling of his extremities) while they ate.

But as he slipped through the back door, he heard a low voice from the pub, and Neville paused to listen in the hall, surprised and a bit curious.

"...just saying it would be a really great evening, that's all, and that's the third time you've told me 'no' in the last three weeks, Hannah."

"And I've told you why I can't — I'm the landlady here now; I can't just run off and leave the Leaky Cauldron for the night, even with the help! It's not like when I was working for Rosmerta. Elisabeth hasn't been here long enough to run things by herself, and Maddie asked for tomorrow night off. And there's no way I'm leaving it with one of the guys because Alfred isn't..."

She hadn't quite finished when the young man started speaking again.

"...starting to think you don't want to go on _any_ dates with me..."

"Oh honestly! Why wouldn't I want to go out sometimes? Sometimes I really _do_ need a break from this place! But Ernie and Susan can't go this week because they're already busy, and —"

"I meant _without_ Ernie and Susan," the young man said sullenly.

"We always go with them." There was stubbornness in Hannah's voice. "All four of us."

"Yes, and I'm tired of it! I want it to be just us, you and me! It's never just us! There's a nice little Muggle theatre a few streets over. Come on, Hannah."

"It sounds very nice, but no," Hannah said firmly. "I can't possibly leave the Leaky Cauldron for that long. It'll last at least two hours, if not three, and everything would fall apart here. Thank you anyway, Justin."

Neville's fingers suddenly felt numb. Justin? Justin Finch-Fletchy? Asking Hannah Abbott out on a date? But... He had always thought Justin and Hannah were just friends. He mastered the urge to pull his wand out and hex Justin from around the doorframe, but only just. What was coming over him?

"Fine," Justin bit the word out angrily, Neville heard the scrape of the barstool on the wooden floor. "We'll discuss this later."

"There's nothing to discuss," Hannah snapped back. "I already told you why I wouldn't be able to go Friday night. I'm not making up excuses, you know."

Justin didn't answer. A few seconds later, Neville heard the front door of the pub open, the momentary hum of traffic in Charing Cross Road, and then the sound of the door banging shut. Silence fell.

He waited a few seconds before venturing out into the pub. Hannah was cleaning a mug with a scowl on her face; she finished wiping it out and set it down exceptionally hard. With a clink on the wooden surface, it cracked, and she snarled under her breath; she muttered the incantation as she pointed her wand at the mug, and it repaired itself instantly.

Neville's soft footsteps made her look up, and he was stunned to see that the annoyed expression on her pretty features rearranged itself instantly into a dazzling smile when she saw him.

"Neville! I didn't hear you come in! Early lunch?"

"Uh, yes. Whatever you have is fine, thank you."

She waved her wand in the direction of the kitchen, and a plate with a large sandwich and a pack of crisps flew out and landed neatly in front of Neville. Conversationally, she asked, "Pint, or something more tame?"

"Pint is fine," Neville replied quietly, and a mug of mead landed in front of him as he glanced around the bar. It was empty except for two men sitting in a dark corner, who glanced at him with unreadable expressions before returning to their inaudible discussion over a bottle of dark liquid that smoked slightly whenever they poured some into their glasses.

"You look a little pale," Hannah observed, her smile fading.

"Oh. No, it's nothing." He opened the bag of crisps and poured them on the plate. He wasn't sure what emotion he was feeling. Anger? Resentment? A twinge of fear? Justin had specifically wanted to take Hannah on a date, but... well, she had refused. Justin had been an old housemate, someone she was close to, but she obviously didn't care about him the way he wanted her to. Those thoughts made him feel slightly more cheerful.

Neville vanished the empty crisp bag and paused before saying, "I'm sorry I just missed Justin. I thought I saw him leaving when I came in." He tried to phrase it carefully — he didn't want Hannah to think he had been spying, and he didn't want to her talk about it if she didn't want to. But part of him was panicky inside as he waited for the answer, desperate for it to be the one he wanted to hear.

Hannah's expression changed subtly; he could see the annoyance in her eyes. "Yes, he was. Thankfully." She turned back to the glasses, wiping another one out.

"Thankfully?" Neville took a bite of the sandwich — it was perfect, with just the right amount of cheese and lettuce and meat, just the way he liked it, and it suddenly occurred to him that Hannah always had it ready for him whenever he came in. How had he never noticed that before?

"Yes, he's been badgering me to go on a date with him for a whole month," she complained. "He doesn't get it that he's just a friend. Nothing more. I don't want go out with him."

Neville swallowed. "Oh."

"Oh?"

"Just..." Neville paused as a different emotion crept into him, one he hadn't felt in years. He sighed and put his sandwich down. "I think he'd rather know you didn't want to date him that way, rather than having constant let-downs. I know it sounds silly, but back in our fourth year, I asked Hermione Granger to go to the Yule Ball with me. She told me no, because she had a date already — I know she wasn't lying about that, because she really did have a date, but to hear 'no' still hurt a little. And she said it as nice as she could, because she didn't want to hurt me. But still, I would much rather hear 'no' and the reason why, and have it over with, then to have it dragged out and hurt worse when it finally _is_ said." He paused. "If that makes any sense."

Hannah was gazing at him with an odd, closed expression, as if she were contemplating what he had just said. He held his breath, hoping she wouldn't be angry with him. Perhaps he had been too bold to say something about what was clearly none of his business, but then she murmured, "I never thought of it quite that way, I suppose. I thought that if I kept making up excuses he would just eventually give up."

"Maybe. But you've been friends with him for a long time, haven't you? I think you owe him that much."

Hannah scowled at him, but before she could speak, the door opened again, and with a gust of wind came a tall, slender blond-headed boy, his hair tousled and his nose slightly turned up. He took in his surroundings abruptly, than strode to the bar. Hannah glanced at him, before she asked in a curt voice, "Can I help you?"

"Drop the act, Hannah," Zacharias Smith said haughtily, "I didn't come in here for refreshment or lunch." He glanced disdainfully at Neville before pulling the brown cashmere scarf from around his neck, loosening it somewhat.

"In that case, the door to the courtyard is, as always, right through there," Hannah said frostily. "Have a nice afternoon."

"I'm perfectly aware of where the door is," he retorted, his face twisted into a sneering smirk. "Actually, I thought I'd drop by on my way over to the _Daily Prophet _— I have to discuss some ad space for the Ministry with the owner — and I was wondering if you were free tomorrow night."

"No," Hannah replied coolly, "I'm not. Have a nice day, Zacharias."

"The letdown as usual? It won't work this time, Abbott; I know your game. You turned Justin down last week on the basis of not being able to leave your little inn, but I happen to know you have two girls and one guy working for you, and you just hired _another_ guy to replace that Gryffindor kid you had in here." He waved Dennis's reference away with his hand, and Neville saw Hannah's eyes narrow dangerously. Zacharias went on without even noticing. "So surely you can leave this place for a few hours and come with me to the opera. My father was able to secure some _excellent_ tickets and I would love to see you in stunning dress robes with me. They're performing _Merlin le Mystérieux_; it should be fantastic. The tour is straight from France."

"Well, I'm afraid you'll have to just dream about the fancy dress robes," Hannah said, a bit scathingly, "because you certainly won't see them on me, on a date with you. I wouldn't date you if you were the last —"

"Typical boring clichés," Zacharias drawled, cutting her off. "You're just saying that to play hard-to-get. I know you don't want to date Justin because he's Muggle-born, but I'm —"

Hannah's body tensed visibly in her anger. "It has nothing to do with blood!" she spat. "You're an arrogant, pompous arse and I've hated you ever since you pushed first years out of your way to avoid fighting in the Battle of Hogwarts! I'm not playing hard-to-get in the least, and I've told you that twice before!"

The outburst was followed by an awkward silence — the men in the corner had glanced over with dark eyes, and Neville could tell that Zacharias had stiffened, though he continued to smile, if bit coldly.

"Well, you were a little heroine then, staying to fight — but I wanted to stay alive as I'm heir to my father's —"

"Oh, shut it," Hannah snapped. "I could care two Knuts for your father's gold. Go to your appointment, Smith. You're wasting your time with me."

Zacharias moved slightly, reaching for his pocket, but Neville was faster. He pointed his wand at Zacharias and frowned, but remained seated at the bar. "If I'm not mistaken, she's asking you to leave. So perhaps you should do so, before you do something you regret, or before I make you leave."

Zacharias sneered, turning his full attention to Neville at last. "Ah, so _you're_ Hannah's new boyfriend, are you? Is this the reason you aren't dating those from your own House, Hannah?" He glanced at her, his expression almost twisted. "I hear he's been living upstairs...would that be in your quarters, or his own? That's what you do with your Friday nights, is it?"

Hannah flushed bright pink, but her voice was perfectly steady. "Three seconds, Smith, before I hex you out. One... Two..."

He smirked at them, the reaction obviously what he wanted, but as Hannah continued to glower at him, he quickly brushed past Neville and stormed out to the courtyard. For a brief second, Neville kept his wand pointing at Smith's back, but when the door slammed shut, he slowly put the wand down and exhaled sharply. Over in the corner, he was dimly aware of the two men watching him, talking in low, hissing whispers.

"That was so brave of you. Thank you."

He glanced at Hannah. She was smiling at him in a soft, fluttery sort of way.

"I wasn't in any real danger. He was just being his usual self, that's all. I'm sorry he bothers you."

"Yes, but you stood up for me. And threatened to curse him."

"I was just being a gentleman," Neville said, confused. "He wouldn't leave you alone."

Hannah paused, looking slightly taken aback. After a moment she stammered, "You mean... You only did that because you were being a gentleman?"

"Well, yes..." That was, he thought, what he was supposed to have done, wasn't it?

For a split second, he could almost feel anger rising off her in waves, and he slid back just a bit. What was going so wrong?

"That was the only reason?"

"Well..." He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. _Bugger_, he thought, how was he supposed to tell her that the reason he had almost hexed Smith into a slug was because he was so obviously, _insanely_ head-over-heels for her and had been for weeks now? He'd never imagined he would have to tell her like this, sitting at the bar over lunch, with a couple of dark, suspicious wizards sitting on the other side of the room throwing back shots of smoking liquor. He had always pictured it so differently — never, ever like this, not here, not now, not confused and stumbling over his words like he was a first year again!

"You are such an _arse_, Neville Longbottom!" Hannah snarled. "How... you... you just..." she spluttered, her hands clenching and unclenching.

"_What_?" He gaped at her, his confusion spiraling worse. Things were so out of control it was as if he had lost track of what had happened, what had led them to this point.

"If you don't know, then _never mind_!" she shouted. Stamping her foot and making an angry noise, she stormed back into the kitchen, and Neville, utterly bewildered, stared at the door as it swung back and forth on its hinges with decreasing momentum until it finally stopped, defeated. He could hear the sounds of anger coming from the kitchen: pots and pans being slammed down on a stove or countertop. Slowly, he slid from his seat and put a Galleon on the counter, then headed back towards the courtyard. He suddenly didn't care about going back to work, though. What on earth had he said or done to upset her? He thought she would have liked him being a gentleman...chivalry was one of the qualities of a Gryffindor, after all. But apparently she didn't care. How could something that was going so right, suddenly go horribly wrong?

He was so wrapped up in feeling wretched, and trying to think of some plan to make up for whatever it was he'd done, that didn't even notice the two men's dark eyes following him as he left.

* * *

"An interesting turn of events." The taller man ran a long, thin fingertip around the top of the shot glass on the table before him, ignoring the smoke rising off the surface of the black liquid inside. "I told you it was a wise idea to wait, and I was right, wasn't I?"

The second man cackled. "I admit it — you were. Now we know the weak link," he responded, throwing back his shot. As soon as he swallowed he added, "Time to formulate the plan, I think."

The first smiled grimly. "More carefully than last time; I prefer to stay out of Azkaban on this round. This time, there is no reason to stick our necks out unnecessarily, unless we're positive we can pull them back in quickly."

"Agreed. Very quickly."

"And I have no intentions of being captured by precious Harry Potter, Wonder Auror."

"Who does?" the second man snorted.

They chuckled together, and without another word, rose from their seats and tossed a few coins on the table, then left the Leaky Cauldron and Disapparated once in Charing Cross Road.


	5. Make-Ups & Quidditch Matches

**Make-Ups & Quidditch Matches**

* * *

Hannah collapsed on her bed, utterly exhausted and angry. It seemed as though it were a few mere minutes since she had lost her temper with Neville, but in reality, it had been hours. As she lay face down on the pillow, hot tears pricked her eyes, and she swallowed, willing herself not to cry.

She couldn't help it — Susan was completely right. In the short time Neville been staying at the Leaky Cauldron, she had become crazy about him. He came in during the evenings, smiled at her, and she would utterly forget what she was supposed to be doing for a few moments. When he came in for lunch, they had actual conversations instead of brief greetings. When she went to bed at night, she would hug the bloody pillows and pretend they were his body against hers. She daydreamed about Neville tying her to the bed and shagging her until she couldn't move. How on earth had she become so lovesick in a matter of two months?

And then today, he had stood up for her, threatened to hex Zacharias to stop him from bothering her... and yet, actually had the nerve to tell her it was _only because he was trying to be a gentleman_.

Bloody, fucking Gryffindor chivalry!

Why couldn't he have said he did it because he was possessive of her, or because didn't want another man touching her, or because he was in love with her? Why couldn't he have said it was because he couldn't live without her and didn't want someone else taking her away from him?

_Because maybe because he _doesn't_ love you_, said the nasty voice in her head.

It was no use — the tears refused to remain in her eyes when she heard that awful, horrid voice, and they spilled out down her cheeks and onto the soft cotton pillowslips. She wrapped her arms around herself and curled into a ball. At times like this, she wished her mother were around, to hold her and stroke her hair and tell her it would all be all right in the end — that boys were just _like_ that sometimes, and didn't realize that the things they said didn't come out the way they meant.

But her mother was dead, and Hannah was completely alone in the world, and that made her cry even harder.

She thought of Susan, and how nice it would be if her best friend would drop by so she could just tell her what had happened, but Susan was working late at the Ministry tonight, and Hannah couldn't bear the thought of confiding in anyone else.

She supposed she should have fallen in love with another Hufflepuff — they were at least the horniest boys she'd ever met, if nothing else. Justin would be ready to take her out in a heartbeat if she gave him any encouragement, after all. But no, she had to go and fall in love with a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors just _had_ to do things the hard way.

There was a soft knock on her bedroom door, and Elisabeth's hesitant voice said, "Miss Hannah? It's almost five — you wanted me to come get you just before the rush. Do you need a Headache Potion?"

Hannah rolled to her back, remembering the lie she had told Elisabeth before she had come upstairs earlier — that she had an awful headache and needed to lie down for a while.

"No," she called out, trying to make her voice sound stronger than she felt. "No, but thank you. I'm fine. I'll be down in a minute."

After a moment, she heard the girl's footsteps retreating down the narrow, rickety stairs. Hannah swallowed and wiped her cheeks and eyes. She had a pub to run, and she couldn't come upstairs to cry over a bloke just because she was angry with him. She wasn't fourteen anymore, after all.

She glanced at the old clock on the mantle, which was once her mother's, and one of the only things from her childhood home that hadn't been destroyed by the Death Eaters. It was just 5:00, and the sun had dropped below her windows, making her quarters dark and almost ethereal. Hannah slowly slid off the bed and went to the mirror to straighten her dress and fix her hair. A quick charm took care of her tear-stained face, making it rosy and dry once more. She took a deep breath and met her now clear eyes in the mirror, though she could still see the tears lurking in the corners. It was the best she could do, and under the bright, sparkling lights of the pub, the tipsy, self-concerned men would likely never notice.

As she slowly went downstairs to the first floor landing, she could already hear those men coming into the pub from work, laughing and calling for Firewhisky or mead. But when Hannah stepped off the final stair onto the landing and turned for the next rickety flight, someone else appeared on the first floor landing, having come up the stairs from the hall.

Neville.

For a second, they looked at each other — Hannah's hand still resting on the banister of the stairs that led to her quarters, and Neville holding a bouquet of...

Daisies?

Her hand gripped the banister tightly and she swayed. Daisies were her favorite flower — bright, deep yellow with dark, chocolaty centers and soft white with creamy, buttery centers. She and her mother picked them in the fields beyond the village of Godric's Hollow for years; they would make chains and drape them over each other's necks or in each other's hair. Her mother would call her a beautiful flower princess, and Hannah would run and swirl amidst the bright sea of yellow and white, laughing. They would sometimes lay in them, while the breeze bobbed the petals about over their heads, and they would watch the clouds drift by, while pointing out odd shapes. Then in the late afternoon, her mother would wave her wand and a tea tray would magically appear, laden with cookies and her grandmother's beautiful antique rose-patterned china, and they would sit under an old oak tree at the edge of the field while the sun turned everything a deep, shimmering gold.

It was as if the memory were too much for the day; too much for her already over-crowded thoughts of wishing her mother were there to comfort her, and wishing Neville hadn't been such a prat, and wishing she could talk to Susan. Fresh tears pricked her eyes, and she vaguely wondered what Neville would say when she started sobbing hysterically. She tore her gaze from the flowers and focused on his face again.

He looked as lonely as she felt. She wondered, vaguely, what sort of childhood memories he held that she didn't know, just as he didn't know about her daisy memories. Her chest tightened painfully. She shouldn't have gotten so angry with him.

He awkwardly held the flowers out to her.

"I, um, bought these for you," he mumbled.

Hannah swallowed, and her face flushed a little. "Oh." She took a deep breath. "T-thank you."

"Are you all right? You're very pale." He seemed concerned and moved to steady her, putting his hand on her waist, the flowers getting caught between them, so that she inhaled a fresh scent of wind and sun and soft fragrance. Her body sagged, and Neville caught her quickly and held her up.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. She didn't meet his eyes. "I just feel a little down. Some bloke told me he only wanted to be a gentleman to me, you see, instead of saying he was madly in love with me —" She broke off, heat rushing to her face. _Merlin_, how could she have just come out and _said_ that? Without thinking, she tried to turn and run back up the stairs from sheer embarrassment, but Neville's hand had tightened on her hip, preventing her from twisting away from him. She forced herself to meet his gaze, wondering how horrified he would look.

But he didn't look horrified. In fact, she couldn't decipher the expression on his face; it was very masked. He finally said, "Actually, that's what I came up to see you about."

"What?" Hannah's voice was quite small; she was such a dolt sometimes, she thought, just bursting out with what she wanted to say without thinking first.

"Yes." He took a deep breath. "I'm really sorry. For what I said earlier. I honestly was trying to be a gentleman and I didn't want to... I mean, never meant to upset you. I...see...Hannah, I really do think I lo..." He trailed off.

It was quite perfect, she thought. His hand was strong on her waist, cupping the curve of her hip, and she could feel the heat from his palm seeping through her dress. His eyes were a warm brown, like dark mead, and she seemed to melt right into him. He leaned in slightly, his eyelids flickered and his gaze dropped to her lips. She felt her body move closer to him, as though they were connected. She could feel his breath, against her upper lip... Any second he would kiss her, and then she would forget all about the afternoon and the rush hour, and everything else in the world and...

"Hey, Neville!"

"Neville! Are you up there?"

Neville jumped, and Hannah felt his hand contract on her hip, then withdraw as though burned. The heat vanished, and she felt empty and annoyed. A bubbling anger filled her stomach. She would surely curse whoever had called his name to Azkaban and back! She and Neville both turned in the direction of the creaking stairs; thunderous footsteps were approaching from the ground floor hallway, and Hannah almost swore in frustration as she recognized the voices.

Blasted Gryffindors. Even if she _did_ like them any other blasted day of the year! Why did they have to interrupt this moment?

Ron Weasley's red hair came into view around the bend in the stairs first. Hannah had already thrust the daisies behind her back to hide them. Neville hadn't even really confessed if he loved her, and she certainly wasn't going to let his friends see that he had brought her flowers. Fortunately, Ron hadn't noticed either of them yet; he was looking over his shoulder at Harry, who was coming up behind him.

"— should be up here, he always comes up before he goes to dinner," Ron was saying confidently. "This is too good to be true!"

"Too good to be true?" Harry retorted. "They've won twenty-eight out of thirty games this season; it isn't like you didn't see it coming. And they lost those two games by only a fraction. That one with the Falcons was only by twenty points, and Jones was _furious_ that Griffiths didn't catch the Snitch before Worthington did."

"Yea, but Portree did better than anyone expected — they only lost _one_ game and it was only by thirty points, so they're ahead by —"

_Quidditch_? They wanted to talk to Neville about _Quidditch_? Nothing terribly important after all, she thought bitterly. If a Death Eater was in the pub, she might have understood. But no, it was just _Quidditch_. Her fingers curled hard around her wand, which was between her hand and the banister.

Ron turned around, saw Neville, and his face lit with a grin. "Neville! Harry and I were coming up to find you — you'll never guess! — the Harpies made it to the Finals with Portree, and the final season game is tomorrow night! Ginny's got tickets for ten people! And she's invited _you_!"

Harry was climbing up the stairs behind Ron; he gave Hannah an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Hannah. We didn't mean to interrupt."

"Oh no, that's fine," she managed to reply, but the words were forced. It wasn't bloody well fine at all; it was rotten.

Neville's eyes had widened, and he stammered, "Are you serious? The Harpies made it to the Finals? But why would Ginny invite me to go?"

"She said you haven't been around much in the last year, so she figures you haven't had a chance to watch much Quidditch." Harry grinned. "She thought you'd enjoy it."

"You _have_ to come," Ron added, "because it's going to be awesome! She's invited Harry and me, of course, and my brothers Bill and Charlie and George. Percy said he didn't really want to go, apparently he's working on some Ministry project and doesn't feel he can take the time." Ron rolled his eyes. "So Angelina's going in his place, because she'd _murder_ someone if George watched a Quidditch Final without her."

"Hermione's going too," Harry said. "She said she wouldn't miss Ginny playing in the finals."

"And we have to leave one chair empty," Ron grew sober for a moment. "Because Gin's got this idea that she needs to reserve a special 'seat of honor' for Fred, so only nine of us are actually going. I just hope George doesn't turn to the empty seat every five seconds to ask thin air what his opinion on the game."

"Anyways, even with a seat reserved in Fred's memory, that still leaves two extra seats," Harry said. "So if you and Hannah want to come...?" He glanced at Hannah, and she felt slightly warmer towards him for interrupting. At least he was willing to include her. She sort of hated to tell him she couldn't go. But she hadn't lied to Justin and Zacharias, and she couldn't lie to Harry Potter, either.

"I'm sorry, Harry, I can't possibly go — tomorrow's Friday night and the pub will be packed. I'd love to, otherwise."

"That's okay, we'll be able to find someone else. I can send a message to Luna, perhaps," Harry said thoughtfully. "If she'd get it in time."

"You'll come, won't you Neville?" Ron asked.

Neville nodded, glancing once at Hannah. "Sure, it sounds great." He hadn't seen a Quidditch game in ages; it would be good to watch one.

"Brilliant!" Ron grinned. "Meet us tomorrow at a quarter past five downstairs, and we'll Apparate from the courtyard. It's being held in a stadium outside London."

Harry grew seriously, suddenly. "Oh, Hannah. If the Harpies win, Gwenog will probably come back here to celebrate. Gin mentioned it to me before we came to find Neville."

"I'll be ready for them," Hannah replied. She was only too familiar with how several of the English Quidditch teams liked to hold their after-parties at the Leaky Cauldron.

"Do the Harpies usually come back here after a game?" Neville asked curiously.

"All the time," Hannah groaned. "Win or lose. Hopefully they'll win — they're the worst losers I've ever seen."

Harry laughed. "All those female hormones will do it. No offense, of course. Come on, Ron, we should find Gin and let her know she's got one extra seat, and it's not Fred's seat of honor."

"Yeah, okay," Ron nodded. "See you tomorrow, Neville! 'Night, Hannah!"

Neville echoed goodnight, and Hannah felt a little more cheerful than she had earlier. As soon as they were out of sight, she pulled the daisies from behind her back and buried her nose in them. They smelled like a warm, breezy, summer afternoon, and she shivered deliciously as she wondered what it would be like to lay in a field of daisies with Neville, possibly naked and sweaty, not caring in the least what the clouds looked like. Her face flushed and her eyes widened as she refocused and realized Neville was watching her with a slight smile.

"Are you sure you're all right?" he asked.

"Yes." Then, more shyly, she added, "Thank you for the flowers. They're beautiful. How did you know they were my favorite?"

"I didn't," he confessed, running a hand behind his neck. She realized he had trimmed his hair since he had first come to the Leaky Cauldron, but it still wasn't as short as it had been at Hogwarts.

"Well, they are," she murmured, pulling a daisy out and trailing it down his nose. His face turned pink, and she laughed.

"I don't know if you're still mad at me or not," he admitted hesitatingly.

"No. I'm not mad at you anymore." Hannah stepped closer and slid one hand up his chest. She heard his sharp intake of breath, saw something in his eyes darken, and she smiled at him. After a split second, Neville leaned down again. His hand fell back to her hip, where she wanted it, and they leaned in together — so close she could feel the heat coming off of him. Then he was a breath away... She could practically taste him, and it felt as though an electrical shock were already coursing through her body, and their lips hadn't even _touched_...

"Miss Hannah!"

Elisabeth's voice was the most horrid thing she had ever heard — even worse than excitable Gryffindor blokes on a Quidditch high. Hannah felt her upper lip brush Neville's just slightly, but not enough to be a real kiss. His hand gripped her hip harder, and she swore just audibly.

"_Damn_ it! _Seriously_?"

"It _is_ rush hour," he said, almost apologetically, still very close to her. "You should be down there, I suppose." The heat from his palm was overwhelming — how could she possibly work right now?

"Miss Hannah, they keep asking for you! It's the second Thursday of the month, which means it's —" Elisabeth's face appeared around the corner of the stairs, and her eyes widened when she realized how close her employer was to Neville Longbottom. Her voice instantly trailed off and she gaped like a fish out of water for a long moment, completely speechless.

"Irish Drinking Song Night," Hannah finished the sentence with a snarl. It was, in fact, the second Tuesday of the month, now that she thought about it. "Bloody _hell_. They'll be here until three in the blasted morning, just like the last time!"

Downstairs she could already hear a select group of wizards breaking into a course of _Merlin's Baggy Britches_ at the top of their lungs — apparently the 'Irish Drinking Night' was some sort of barmy tradition that had started when old Tom had been the landlord, and there was absolutely no way for Hannah to end it.

She looked at Neville, ready to utter an apology, but to her shock, he merely smiled back at her and leaned over to whisper in her ear.

"We can pick this up tomorrow, if you wish."

She was sure she was going to fall over and he'd have to catch her, which would be a lot pleasanter than going downstairs. She forced herself to mutter back, "You have work tomorrow, and after that you're going to a Quidditch match, remember?"

"Then sometime later, I guess?" he murmured.

Her voice seemed caught in her throat, and she felt his mouth slowly brush the soft, tender spot just below her ear, and her eyes widened. One of her hands gripped his upper arm convulsively, and before she realized it, he had drawn back, smiled at her, and was turning into his room.

Elisabeth was still gaping at them, her mouth moving wordlessly, and Hannah wished to anything in heaven that she'd go back to the bloody bar and serve alcohol like she had been hired to do. By this time tomorrow, wizards as far away as Uruguay would know that Hannah Abbott and Neville Longbottom had _almost_ kissed on the first floor landing of the Leaky Cauldron.

His door shut, and Hannah trembled for a second before conjuring a vase of water and putting the flowers in it. Resolutely ignoring Elisabeth, she stormed upstairs to her quarters, put them lovingly on the night table beside her bed, and then stomped back downstairs. She took care to make as much racket as possible on the last flight, though it served no real purpose as no one heard her. The noise level took a sharp upswing as she ducked behind the bar and several men saw her and yelled cheerful, slightly slurred, greetings.

"..._And fell right off his arse, the biggest FARCE you'd ever seen, was Merlin's baggy, y-frontttttttt britchessssssss_!"

As she grabbed another platter of mugs, the men threw back their pints and starting up another rowdy song. She slowly touched the spot behind her ear before reaching for the taps, and she wondered what Neville was doing right then, without her.

* * *

Neville really had no idea whatsoever how he managed to get through the next day. It didn't help that he'd only managed to obtain some three hours of sleep the night before, after he'd lain awake until nearly four in the morning tossing like a fool in bed, punching his pillow down, and getting twisted in his sheets. Hannah's skin had been soft enough to nearly drive him mad.

Digby seemed to notice he wasn't himself — he offered to let Neville leave early for the Quidditch match, but Neville refused. If he went back to the inn with too much time before Harry and Ron showed up, he'd likely never make it to the match at all, and end up closeted in his room with Hannah.

Then there was the whole idea of the Quidditch match itself — he hadn't seen a one in almost over two years, and Ginny had been a fantastic player at school. Sitting in a top box would offer an unparalleled view.

When five o'clock _finally_ rolled around, Neville left the shop and practically sprinted back up Diagon Alley, bypassing shop owners and wizards and witches without even paying attention to who was around him.

The Leaky Cauldron was already busy when he slipped inside — Hannah was weaving her way through the wooden tables with three pints in each hand, her sleeves rolled back past her elbows, and the snug dress pushing her breasts up to reveal glistening cleavage, already hot and flushed from hustling about between the tables. Neville abruptly stopped and stared at her, but a couple of old warlocks were laughing and thanking her for being such a pretty hostess, and he knew he didn't have a lot of time. There was no sense getting angry because two old men were ogling at Hannah; it wasn't as though she couldn't take care of herself if she needed to, and it probably happened all of the time anyways. He hurried upstairs to his room and quickly changed out of his work robes into casual robes. Then he brushed his hair out of his eyes, grabbed his wand and stowed it in his pocket and ran some cologne behind his neck, wishing that Hannah could smell it instead of his friends. He checked his reflection one more time in the mirror before going back down to the pub, taking the stairs two at a time.

Hannah was behind the bar now, filling three more mugs of mead, while she yelled loudly over the din to a table of six men, stating that they would have to leave at eight and find somewhere else to go, because it was the Harpies' final game of the season and they would be coming back with their guests after the game ended. This announcement was met by groans from all sides at the idea of having to leave the pub earlier than usual, and the talked turned instantly to Quidditch. Someone hollered for Elisabeth to turn the Wireless on, which she did with a flick of her wand. Pre-game talk immediately blared over the crowd, picking up in the middle of the announcers' discussion about the two teams while fans already in the stadium roared in the background of the program, and it became _very_ clear that most of the men in the room were supporting Portree. Neville slipped into the crowd, searching for Harry and Ron, but he couldn't see the bright red of Ron's hair anywhere.

"Neville!"

He turned; Ron was waving to him from the door that lead off to the courtyard, and he hurried over, thankful he didn't have to continue his search.

"We're Apparating from the courtyard," Ron said loudly over the noise of the pub. "It'll be too obvious from Charing Cross and it's too crowded in here!"

Neville glanced once more at Hannah, wishing he could tell her goodbye — he hadn't spoken to her at all since the night before except to tell her good morning before he'd left for work. But she was busy putting down a tray of Firewhisky and shot glasses for a table of rowdy young men in a corner, and Ron was already pulling him out of the pub.

The courtyard was a bit crowded as well — a few wizards and witches were coming in from Diagon Alley, and they all looked rather disgruntled that half of the Weasley family was taking up a good deal of space in the small area. Neville and Ron joined the others as the brick wall opened yet again to reveal another couple of wizards coming in from the Alley.

"Is this all of us?" Charlie Weasley called good-naturedly, while the two wizards scowled at them and hurried into the Leaky Cauldron. He leaned around George and shook Neville's hand. "It's Longbottom, right? Neville Longbottom?"

"Yes," Neville said, surprised that Charlie knew his name so readily. Perhaps Ron had foretold him who else was coming tonight.

"Nice to see you," Charlie replied, grinning.

Bill Weasley interrupted Charlie. "Yes, this is all of us. Except Harry."

"Where are your parents?" Neville asked, looking in surprise at Ron. He had suddenly realized that the elder Weasleys were nowhere to be seen, and he couldn't imagine that Ginny wouldn't invite her parents to her first Finals game.

"They didn't want to come." Bill shrugged lightly, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. His long hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck, and when he smiled at Neville, his scars stretched oddly. "Mum said she had no desire to watch a rowdy Quidditch match even if it _was_ her daughter, and Dad _would_ have come, but Mum's... Well..." He trailed off, and after a long pause, conceded, "She's sort of mad at him and made him stay behind, too."

Neville's confusion showed on his face as all of the Weasleys snickered. It was Hermione who explained (with a reproachful look at the others): "She found a whole box of broken Muggle appliances out in the shed, and Mr. Weasley was apparently trying to repair them...with a few extra, er, _magical_ touches." She grimaced, and the Weasleys' snickers broke into real laughter.

George was still standing only because he had an arm around Angelina's waist. "He'd swiped them out of a garbage bin in town, actually! Said he just wanted to do some _research_ and insisted the Muggles wouldn't care because they didn't want them anyway. Mum went _ballistic_," he added affectionately, wiping tears from his eyes. "Reminds me of when she used to yell at me and Fred."

Angelina rolled her eyes. "And you and Fred usually deserved it."

"Aw, that's no way to talk about a dearly-departed, dead brother," George said, beaming at her. "He'd be crushed if he knew you remembered him with such ill-will."

Neville wondered briefly how George could talk so freely about the loss of his twin brother, but as he looked more closely, he noticed that even as George made the off-hand comment, there was a dead look in his eyes despite the smirk. It was odd, but it was definitely there. Neville had seen the same look in Dennis' eyes, and he knew, with a gut-wrenching, sudden heartache, that it was ten times worse for George Weasley than it was for Dennis Creevey — George was just better at putting on the mask to hide the pain from his family and girlfriend. It never ceased to amaze Neville what sort of horrors war could cause, and it always hit him when he least expected it.

Angelina must have seen the dead look too, because she leaned over and kissed George's cheek. "I'll try to remember him with more amusement next time. Which won't be terribly difficult," she said, her eyes sparkling.

"So," Ron continued, "as you can see, Dad isn't coming with us, either. And Percy is busy."

"There's still one seat though, isn't there?" Neville asked, trying to count up in his head. Bill, Charlie, George and Angelina, Ron and Hermione, Harry, the vacant seat that would have been Fred's, and himself — that left one additional seat.

"Luna," Hermione said cheerfully. "She was in Norway and Harry was able to reach her last night. She was going to Floo straight into his office at the Ministry and they're going to meet us here."

Ron added, "Harry said Luna told him she wouldn't miss Ginny's first Finals match for anything — not even a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. So while Rolf keeps looking for the elusive little buggers, she's going to come watch the game."

Hermione rolled her eyes, and the Weasleys laughed again. But before she could comment on exactly what she thought of the "elusive" Crumple-Horned Snorkack, the door from the pub opened, and Harry stepped out into the now over-crowded courtyard, followed by Luna Lovegood, whose large blue eyes widened as she saw the Weasleys.

"Oh, you _are_ all here! It's so good to see you all again!" She hugged Hermione, then Ron, and finally Neville. "I can't wait to watch the game; I just hope it isn't interrupted by Stjeles," she added in concern, her large eyes turning to George and Angelina. "I've just learned of them in Norway a few days ago, and they really can ruin a Quidditch match —"

"We're running late!" Angelina called loudly over the group, cutting Luna off before George could start laughing again. "Everyone grasp hands!"

Before anything else happened, Neville found one of his hands gripped by Ron, and the other by George, who leaned over and whispered, "What the hell's a Stjele?"

Before Neville could respond, Bill had turned sharply, and Neville felt his body leave the courtyard.

When he opened his eyes, he was standing outside a large Quidditch stadium, and the excitement in the air was thick and electric. Wizards and witches, mostly a younger crowd, were hurrying towards the entrances, and Neville could hear snatches of song and laughter all around him.

"Top level!" Bill called over the group, holding up their tickets in his hand. "Come on!"

The climb to the top level was a long one, especially amidst the other fans flooding into the stadium, but with all the laughter and talk, Neville hardly noticed. Ahead of him, Bill, Charlie and Angelina were having a heated discussion about the Harpies' chances, while George was trying to explain to Hermione why Portree had managed to make it to the Finals and Puddlemere hadn't. Ron had curiously asked Luna what a Stjele was, and Luna had gone into an explanation about the invisible magical creatures that stole Quaffles and threw them to the ground, so players had to make dives for them — the Stjeles could be revealed, apparently, by certain incantations in Ancient Runes, and they had lithe silver bodies with suckers for hands, the better to grip the Quaffle with, though Luna admitted she had never seen one. But Rolf was looking for them while she was away so they could continue their research, apparently. Harry and Neville exchanged a look, and it took all they had not to laugh.

The box that had been reserved for Ginny was open to the sky, with ten seats exactly. Bill, Charlie, George and Angelina filed into the rear row, leaving a vacant seat between Charlie and George; Harry, Neville, Ron, Hermione, and Luna slid into the first row.

The crowd was roaring, and Neville could only catch snatches of conversation from the others around him.

"I'm pretty sure the Harpies can do it, but they can't let Portree get a lead..."

"Here in England we call them Quaffle-Snatchers, instead of Stje —"

"They aren't real, Luna!"

"Oh yes, I'm sure they are, Rolf swore he saw one when he was watching some children playing Quidditch in a field just last week. It grabbed the Quaffle and threw it straight at the ground, just as the ancient texts say..."

"They just _dropped_ the Quaffle, it wasn't a Stj —"

"I think Ginny's going to score the majority of the Harpies' goals, don't you agree, Fred?"

"_George_!"

"I was just asking his opinion!"

There was a loud groan from Bill. "George — we all know you're crazy; you don't need to try and convince your own family!"

Neville wondered if it were possible to feel even more giddy and hyped than he felt right at that second.

A minute later, the Harpies and Portree flew out onto the field as the announcer called the names of the players, and the crowd roared even louder. When Ginny's name was called and she flew out on a sleek Firebolt, the Weasleys shouted more than anyone on the top rows of the stadium, and she waved at them as she went by, her long red hair in a ponytail streaming behind her.

The moment the game started, Neville knew it was going to be a good one. He, Harry, and Ron were practically leaning over the edge of the box, shouting at the players even though they couldn't really be heard — Angelina was on her feet behind them, screaming at Portree when they made goals and cheering on the Harpies. It was fast and furious, much better than school games. The Harpies were scoring early, with the majority of shots to Ginny, just as George had predicted. She was obviously a crowd favorite and a top player; whenever she scored the upswing in cheering was evident.

It seemed to last a long time, though; longer than most Quidditch games Neville had ever been to. An hour went by with no sign of the Snitch, which wasn't entirely unusual, but definitely made the tension worse. It certainly wasn't as if Harry were looking for it, or that George yelled once that Fred had spotted it at the bottom of Portree's goalposts — which earned him a hard knock on the head from Angelina and a snarl from Harry to shut up so he could focus on the game. Worse, the longer the two teams played, the more the Harpies began to struggle — Portree was playing better in the long haul, making up for their poor start, and Gwenog had already called one time-out to brawl at her team. The way the points had lined up, if Griffiths got the Snitch, the Harpies would tie with Portree, and both sides were fighting now, each Keeper saving goal after goal, as a stalemate ensued for more than ten minutes.

Then (and it happened so fast Neville was sure he wouldn't have seen it, had he not been with the Weasleys, whose multiple pairs of eyes caught everything):

Griffiths was suddenly plunging towards the ground, ahead of the Portree Seeker, and there was a glint of gold flickering in the center of the field. The crowd was on their feet and louder than they had been all night; Jones screamed, "_Don't catch it yet!_" at the top of her lungs. Ginny, who had the Quaffle and was dodging a Portree Chaser, realized what was happening as well, and Neville saw the sickening expression dart across her face as she streaked by.

"Griffiths is going to tie the game!" Hermione shrieked; she was clutching Luna, and Luna's eyes were wider than usual.

"_What an idiot!_" Angelina bellowed, nearly falling over Hermione and Luna while George grabbed her around the waist to keep her inside the box. "_Not yet, Griffiths, you dolt!_"

"Gin's got the Quaffle!" Ron yelled hoarsely, jumping up and down, punching at the air as if to help her broom speed up.

Beside him, Harry shouted at the top of his lungs, "COME ON, GINNY!"

Ginny executed a Sloth Grip Roll to avoid a Bludger — Griffiths was almost at the Snitch, her hand extended, her fingers grasping — the Portree Keeper had gritted his teeth as Ginny rocketed towards him, and hurled the Quaffle at the goal, faking to the right and throwing instead towards the center post.

In the blink of an eye, the Keeper lunged better than Ron had ever dived when he was on his worst form, and nearly fell off his room. The Quaffle went through the post, and the announcer shouted, "SCORE, HARPIES — 390 Harpies to 530 Portree! NO WAIT, Griffiths gets the Snitch! GRIFFITHS GETS THE SNITCH!"

Griffiths had crashed into the ground with a brutal crunch mere seconds after Ginny's Quaffle had cleared the goal, but she thrust her hand upward, revealing the tiny fluttering ball between her fingers.

The noise was deafening. The Portree Captain was screaming that Ginny's Quaffle had gone through too late, but the two referees insisted it had not. The crowds were on their feet; it was impossible to tell who was shouting for what reason. Behind Neville, Bill and Charlie were cheering, and George was yelling something nasty at the Portree captain, though not as loud or as nasty as Angelina was. Hermione had collapsed in her seat and buried her face in her hands; Luna was gripping her shoulder, shaking her, saying it was going to be all right now, because Ginny had won the game. Ron had grabbed Neville around the shoulders and was still jumping up and down in jubilation.

Finally, the referees beckoned the Harpies to the center of the field — the Keeper and Chaser Morgan were supporting Griffiths between them. Gwenog Jones accepted the trophy, holding it up proudly for everyone to see, and then ignored Griffiths completely to pass the trophy to Ginny, who took it by one handle and held it up, glancing at the box with her family, who all roared in approval and waved wildly at her. Portree was grudgingly shaking hands with the winners, though it was obvious they felt they had lost the game by a fluke.

Somewhere behind him, Neville heard Charlie yell, "Back to the Leaky Cauldron then, before the crowd clogs up the exits!"

Neville was pushed and prodded as the Weasleys filed out of the box and thundered down the flights of stairs to reach the fields around the stadium before the rest of the crowd — they were caught up in a tide of people, and Neville was jostled exceedingly. When they finally were able to stagger out, Neville felt Ron and Harry grab his hands. Before he could think, the stadium and the crowds vanished. His feet slammed into the hard pavement on Charing Cross Road, and amidst the laughing Weasleys, he was shunted into the famous Leaky Cauldron.


	6. The After-Party

**Author's Note:** When I originally posted this chapter, I had some reviewers comment that they didn't like the way I'd portrayed Ron. Granted, he is drunk for half this chapter, and that does have an affect on anyone's character. I made up for it in an upcoming chapter by having him be a hero, but for this chapter, just understand he's drunk, not stupid or comedic.

* * *

**The After-Party**

* * *

Neville was quite certain it was the wildest party he had ever attended, though he had to admit he hadn't been to very many "wild" parties.

It hadn't started out that way. When he first entered the Leaky Cauldron after the game, his immediate thought was that it was nice to be able to hear himself think again. Despite the pub's earlier crowd, it was now completely empty, save for Hannah and Elisabeth.

When Neville and the others walked in, Hannah squealed and ran to hug Hermione and Luna, saying she'd heard the ending on the Wireless and all of her patrons had left shortly afterwards, so the Harpies could return for their victory party. The three girls then struck up a conversation, while the boys and Angelina stood around looking awkward.

They didn't have much time though — within minutes, another group of Quidditch fans entered the Leaky Cauldron. By the way they boisterously called greetings to Hannah and sat down at one of the larger tables, Neville assumed they were friends of one of the Harpies and were familiar with the team's after-game parties. Hannah, looking apologetic, bade Hermione and Luna farewell so she could start serving her new guests.

Two more groups came in behind the first, and before Neville quite realized it, the pub was packed to bursting again. Every time he tried to catch Hannah's attention, someone else would call for something to drink, and though she had smiled at him a few times, she was now quickly filling mugs and shot glasses, and sliding them down the bar to patrons or Elisabeth, with amazing precision.

The confusion and discordance was growing as people begin to mesh and talk and laugh together. Bill had opted to Floo back home before Fleur started to worry, since she was home by herself with the baby, but Charlie was already striking up a conversation with a couple of wizards he'd recognized from his school days at Hogwarts. Angelina and George quickly claimed a booth when they realized how big the crowd was going to be, and Harry and Neville took the opportunity to squeeze in with them while Luna wandered over to gaze vaguely at a painting of Daisy Dodderidge tucked away in a crooked little nook.

"Where did Ron and Hermione go?" Neville asked, looking over the heads of a couple of witches wearing Harpies t-shirts and holding pints.

George rolled his eyes. "If I had to guess, Ron's probably pulled her into a parlor to snog," he snorted.

Harry wrinkled his lip. "Don't you think they're a bit past that now?"

Angelina accepted her glass of Firewhisky from Elisabeth, who had just appeared at their table. "I think Hermione initiated it, actually."

"Of course she did," George said with confidence, taking his Firewhisky as well. "Fred and I always said Ron didn't know what went where."

Angelina had just thrown her shot back and she sputtered and nearly choked at this remark. Harry sniggered at her reaction while George merely laughed and went on, "We always said he needed a picture book with diagrams. We offered to make him one —"

"_George_!" Angelina coughed, rubbing her hand roughly under her nose, from whence she had nearly spewed liquid everywhere.

"Didn't he learn with Lavender?" Neville asked before he could stop himself. He felt his face grow slightly red, but Harry and George didn't seem surprised; on the contrary, both chortled.

"Perhaps he did," George said, albeit rather evilly. Then his eyes lit up and he exclaimed loudly, "Sex picture books for the sexually handicapped! Bloody hell, that's it!" He conjured a quill and a piece of parchment from nowhere and scribbled the idea down, then vanished both, beaming. The others stared at him, and Neville wondered what on earth George was doing. But George only laughed at their expressions and explained, "Joke shop idea. You know, part of our... er... kinkier line of products."

Angelina rolled her eyes and poured herself another shot. "Which, I hate to say, are selling rather well. Unfortunately."

Neville's confusion must have shown on his face, because George went on, "I try to keep a general list of random ideas. So when I need an idea for a new product, I can just pull out the list and tweak —"

However, the conversation was cut abruptly short with the arrival of the Harpies, who had changed out of their Quidditch gear and were wearing jeans and team t-shirts. When they entered the Leaky Cauldron, the crowd's noise level took a drastic, ear-splitting upswing: people were whistling and clapping and yelling, and made a path for the girls to wind their way to the bar. Gwenog Jones nodded importantly to a few select people and shook hands with one or two more _very_ select few, before she reached the bar and passed out shots of Firewhisky to her team. She then stood up on a barstool to address the crowd with a satisfied, smug expression.

"_A toast_!" she called thunderously, and the crowd echoed her statement with catcalls and whistles. It took all Neville had not to stuff his fingers in his ears. Gwenog waited until everyone was semi-quiet again before she roared, "To Portree's Keeper, Brockmeyer, for making such a ridiculous dive on that final, brilliant shot of Weasley's!"

The crowd howled with laughter and the Harpies threw back their shots. Ginny glanced at Harry, George, Angelina, and Neville with an apologetic grimace, as if to say: _Gwenog can be ridiculously pompous and a abrasive at times like this, sorry_.

But poor Ginny couldn't get away just yet; Gwenog wasn't done, and certainly not with her star player.

"Another toast!" Gwenog called over the noise, lifting a second glass of Firewhisky, and jumping down off the barstool to snatch Ginny up to her side. "To Ginevra 'Gin' Weasley, for an awesome, unbeatable shot right at the wire!"

The crowd screamed their appreciation even louder, and Ginny smiled sheepishly at everyone, while looking as though she really wanted to slip away into a quiet back room for a while. Several fans now hurried up to shake her hand and clap her on her shoulders or back. The final play of the game instantly became the conversation topic throughout the room. Poor Griffiths was shoved into a corner table where she could recuperate from crashing into the ground without having to endure so many snide remarks about how she had attempted to merely tie the game rather than win it.

Neville listened for what seemed ages, as various people congratulated Ginny on her superb flying skills and the way she had psyched Brockmeyer out at the last second and secured the win for her team. Gwenog kept Ginny close by in order to randomly grip her on the shoulder and say in a booming voice, "_That's my girl!_ Best recruit in the last five years!"

After an hour, Ginny _finally_ managed to escape Gwenog's clutches in order to hug Luna, who had wandered over to apologize that she couldn't stay any longer. Rolf would be worried, she'd explained, but she had enjoyed the game immensely. Ginny hugged her friend and took the opportunity to sneak away from Gwenog under the pretense of seeing Luna off; after hasty but affectionate goodbyes all around, Luna disappeared through one of the Floos, and Ginny (with a sidelong glance at Gwenog, who was ordering more shots) slid into the seat next to Harry and sank low to avoid being seen by her captain.

By this point, the toasts were becoming a bit ridiculous and the crowd slightly rowdy — Gwenog was slurring her words as she shouted, "A toast to Rod Melbourne for designing the trophy! He always has a great design, doesn't he? Hey, where did Ginevra go? Oh, never mind — a toast to Horace Slughorn and his crystallized pineapple! Gots to love that man! Was he at the game? Did anyone see him?"

George and Angelina were ignoring Gwenog and had progressed to the table's second bottle of Firewhisky. With Ginny now in their midst, they started up a rousing round of "I've Never..." while Neville tried desperately not to get good and totally sloshed — somewhere in the back of his brain, a sane, sober part kept reminding him he still had to see Hannah before going to bed to discuss the previous night's events, and that it would be a really dumb idea to talk to her while he was hopelessly drunk. They'd end up doing Merlin only knew what, if that were the case.

Ron and Hermione finally emerged from wherever they'd been hiding — Hermione looked tousled and slightly pink, but otherwise composed, while Ron was grinning in a silly, cocky way. They joined the others at the already-crowded table, squeezing in with a couple of extra chairs conjured from nowhere. George started to say something, but Angelina must have kicked him under the table to prevent him from embarrassing his younger brother, because he snarled and gave her an annoyed look for no other reason.

As the booth was now incredibly crowded, Neville extracted himself. Harry, who had been talking to Ginny, glanced up to demand where Neville was going; he only managed to get away by promising he'd return.

As he slipped through the crowd he caught a glimpse of Charlie across the room, singing a song with some of his old acquaintances about a near-sighted Quidditch Beater who hit himself repeatedly with his own bat. Elisabeth looked exhausted as she bypassed a table of laughing witches, carrying a platter of empty glasses. Neville wondered if he'd get a chance to talk to Hannah before or _after_ midnight; the crowd was insanely large and already drunk.

Maddie, one of Hannah's other helpers, greeted him at the bar, and to occupy himself, he asked for a pint of mead. As she hurried to fill it, Neville noticed Gwenog was sitting two seats down, going on about what a brick Hannah was to always let them host their parties at the Leaky Cauldron whenever the Harpies played in England. He glanced over his shoulder to see Harry and Ginny slipping out of the booth and sliding behind a couple of tall wizards in orange robes to avoid being seen; they managed to disappear into the hallway. Ron and Hermione took the newly vacated seats in the booth.

"Pint," Maddie said suddenly, catching his attention again as she smacked the mug down on the wooden counter and hurried on to the next customer.

Neville wondered where he could go to sit down again. Hermione and Ron were picking up the drinking game with George and Angelina, and he felt as though he'd be out of place if he went back. He looked around the room to see if he spotted anyone else he knew. No one seemed to jump out at him — most of the crowd was older than he was. He did see Eddie Carmichael in a corner with a couple of girls, and a former Slytherin he recognized as having been a couple of years above him at Hogwarts. By one of the several fireplaces he noticed Cormac McLaggen, loudly chatting with the Harpies' Chaser Morgan, who was laughing over something he had just said.

Rather than catch Cormac's eye, Neville slipped around the bar unnoticed. He glanced at the room in general for a brief second, but no one was paying him any attention. Someone had just turned the Wireless on and the Weird Sisters were suddenly booming with loud, hard, jarring notes, and most of the crowd banged their hands on the tables and hollered in appreciation.

Neville quickly ducked into the kitchen.

His first thought was that it was a heck of a lot quieter; Hannah must have cast a Muffling Charm on the door. He took a deep breath and looked around. The room was empty — Elisabeth, Maddie, and Alfred were all out in the pub itself. The sink was piled with dirty glasses that were washing themselves one by one, waiting for Alfred to return and retrieve them for further use. Several prepared platters of chips, pretzels, and wings were ready to be taken out as well. It was warm, because the door to the huge brick oven was partially cracked, and Neville could see the hot red flames flickering inside.

His gaze then slid to an open, wooden door with iron studs in it. There were steps descending downward, and it occurred to him that there must be a cellar beneath the Leaky Cauldron. A few seconds later, two barrels and quite a few bottles of liquor gracefully flew out of the door and landed on one of the scrubbed, wooden counters, confirming this thought. Hannah followed, shutting the door securely behind her, but as she turned back to the kitchen, she saw Neville, and he noticed her eyes widen.

"Neville! What are you...? I thought you were outside with Ron and Harry...!" she stammered.

He moved forward, almost unaware he was walking. She was flushed, and he could see the shimmering shine of sweat on her chest, over the tops of her breasts and on her neck. The very sight was maddening, he thought vaguely, and he answered her only by instinct.

"Harry and Ginny disappeared. And Ron and Hermione are playing some drinking game with George and Angelina. I felt a bit out of place."

"Oh." She paused, than turned to the counter to separate the bottles of liquor out. "It's quite rowdy tonight, isn't it? The Harpies are always a noisy lot. I expect the party will last a long time, especially since they won _and_ it's the weekend. If you go to bed early, you'll want to put an Imperturbable Charm on your door," she added.

"That's a good idea," he agreed.

They fell silent; Hannah was arranging the liquor with expertise, and Neville struggled to find something else to say. He had, after all, kissed her neck the night before, so he felt he had to say _something_. He halted beside the counter where she was working, and she glanced at him with a smile.

"I'll bet the game was fantastic to watch," she ventured. "It sounded that way over the Wireless."

"It was. Really fantastic."

She pushed two bottles of Smokeblack Brandy to one side. "I'm glad I stocked up the other day. They'll drink the cellar dry. I'll have to order from the suppliers tomorrow morning."

He took a deep breath. She was sorting out another three bottles on the counter, and he wondered if she was doing it mechanically, to avoid bringing up the subject they were both thinking about.

"Hannah?"

"Hmm?" She pushed the three bottles of Sun-Scorched Tequila across the counter — according to the label, an import from the all-wizarding community of Encanto, Mexico. Her hands moved to the next set of bottles, and Neville instinctively reached forward and grasped her fingers. They were warm and clammy. She twisted towards him, her expression unreadable.

Before he realized what he was doing, he had pushed her back against the counter, and her arms were around his neck. Her eyes were suddenly hot and dark blue, and her lips a deep pink and slightly parted; her face was softly flushed from the heat of the kitchen and he bent his head quickly, intent on taking the kiss he had been denied the night before, by force if he had to, because it was really driving him insane to stand so close to her and _not_ kiss her.

But just as his mouth brushed hers and he felt her sharp intake of breath, and her nails dug slightly into the back of his neck in pleasure, the kitchen door banged open.

"Just a moment, I'll see if _lovely_ Miss Hannah has any more," Cormac McLaggen's voice drawled.

"Hell no," Neville snarled under his breath, finally losing his temper. He had been tolerant of Harry and Ron — they were two of his best mates, after all. And Elisabeth was just a young barmaid who hadn't really meant to interrupt them the night before. But damn it, he _refused_ to let Cormac McLaggen burst in on this moment. Before Hannah could react, he'd snatched his wand from his pocket and flicked it towards the door.

Cormac was in the very motion of turning towards the kitchen when Neville muttered, "_Langlock_." Instantly, Cormac grabbed his throat, and realizing his tongue was suddenly glued to the top of his mouth, he looked around wildly and saw Neville pinning Hannah to the counter. His eyes widened furiously. He reached for his wand, but before he could pull it out, Neville flicked his wand again, and this time, Cormac clapped his hands to his mouth as he wretched, his eyes bulging.

However, before Neville could send Cormac flying backwards out of the kitchen door — which was his next intention — Hannah beat him to it. She had somehow grabbed her own wand from her pocket, and she waved it sharply. It was as though an invisible hand pushed Cormac back into the bar; they heard him crash into the counter with an almighty splatter of vomit as the door swung shut, and several people howled with laughter while a few others shrieked in disgust. Maddie screamed something about slugs, and Gwenog roared for someone to throw McLaggen out the door before he ruined the party by puking slugs all over the floor of the Leaky Cauldron.

Neville and Hannah glanced at each other, and without warning, they both began to giggle uncontrollably. Hannah buried her face in his shoulder to muffle the sound, and Neville wrapped his arms around her, feeling the supple, sensuous curves he'd wanted to touch for ages. The giggles turned to snorts of laughter, and after a few minutes the glanced at each other again, but far too amused at torturing McLaggen.

Hannah pressed her palm to her mouth to keep from laughing any louder, and she finally stammered, "He's as bad as Zacharias, isn't he?"

"And this time," Neville said firmly, "I _didn't_ do it to be chivalrous."

"Oh?" Her eyes danced.

"No."

"So why _did_ you do it?"

"Because I'm tired of watching other blokes come in here and make passes at you, when I get the impression that you like _me_. And Merlin knows that I like _you_," he said.

Before she could reply, he bent down and kissed her impulsively. At first it was awkward and a little rough — Hannah was taken by surprise at his boldness, and Neville was still seething at McLaggen for bursting in unexpectedly on his special moment. But after a couple of seconds, Hannah molded into his body, pressing into him, and their mouths found a better angle, and the next thing he knew, it was as though the world had burst into a million pieces.

Seconds slipped by into minutes. Time didn't seem to exist; Neville could feel her hands roaming almost desperately over his torso and shoulders and arms, as though she couldn't touch enough of him at once. Their mouths had fused together and then apart, shifting into new angles and while their tongues met and danced feverishly, and Neville could feel his blood beating faster as Hannah's body pressed desperately against his.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, he had heard her mutter hotly against his mouth that she was hopelessly in love with him. He was slowly becoming delirious as one of her legs slid up the side of his, crooking over his hip. His hair was mused from where her fingers had tangled and re-tangled in it; he asked her how long she had loved him, and she giggled and murmured that it had been for a couple of months at least, while her mouth slid lower to his neck and throat. As his head tilted back and his knees started to give out, and her lips suckled his adam's apple, he had to grasp the counter behind her with one hand just to remain standing. She was bloody _brilliant_; where had she learned to tease a bloke like this? Her lips were soft and moving hungrily down his chest now, because her fingers were undoing buttons on his shirt and her mouth was just naturally following. _Merlin help him_, if she kept going _lower_... His other hand curled tightly on her torso, just below her breast — he could feel the heat on her body, feel the curve just brushing his hand. They had to get out of the kitchen and upstairs, he thought desperately. _Now_.

But then, about the time she reached his stomach, Hannah slid back up and cupped his face, kissing him with searing heat again as her hands dropped to his belt. He had to help her, he had to get that dress off of her...

And, to his immense frustration, someone outside yelled, "_Miss Hannah_! We need more Firewhisky; it's almost gone!"

Hannah started and broke away as the jarring voice brought them back to reality, and Neville staggered slightly, his breath coming in heavy gasps. Hannah's face was pink and hot, her lips swollen and plump from kissing him so frantically; her eyes were over-bright and dark with lust, and her hair slightly mused from his own roaming fingers. He knew he could look no less disheveled or desperate than she did.

After a few moments, she muttered, "_Bloody hell_." Her voice was husky and low.

He tried to collect his thoughts, which was exceedingly hard when she sounded so turned-on and he certainly was. But she had a pub to run, and he couldn't get in the way of that. There was a huge party going on outside, with only a door separating their little tryst from over fifty people, and she needed to be in the middle of it as she _was_ the host — not back here in the kitchen with him. He vaguely realized she was buttoning his shirt up again, her fingers trembling and slipping.

"Blasted party," she muttered, doing the second to the last one from his collar. "Blasted pub, blasted inn... just... _blast_!"

He smiled, and before he could stop himself, he kissed her again, long and slow, savoring the taste of warmth in her mouth before mumbling, "Listen, after the party —"

"You're damned right — after the party." She kissed him hard, eagerly, and he tried to pull away before he lost all of his control and took her right there on the counter.

Hannah made herself pull away from him; they separated themselves by about four feet: She leaned against the counter, and he against the wall.

She swallowed visibly. "Let me think. Oh, Merlin. You should go back out there, before Harry and Ron start to wonder." Her chest was rising and falling; his eyes were drawn to it. He had a mad desire to pull the bodice open, without the slightest care of how much he ripped the fabric. What was wrong with him? He'd never wanted to do something like that before to a girl.

"Yes," he said. His voice sounded a hoarse. "And you've got to carry all of that out. Do you need any help?"

She contemplated this for a moment. "No, I'll be all right. Go on." She stepped forward and kissed him lightly, then pushed him to the door. "Go on. After the party."

Neville smiled back at her as he bumbled out the door. It swung shut, blocking her beautiful eyes and skin and mouth from his view, and he slipped around the bar before Maddie or Elisabeth noticed him.

Somehow he managed to make it back to the booth where George, Angelina, Ron, and Hermione were sitting. Harry and Ginny weren't back yet, and as he slid into his seat, his buzzing ears caught snatches of conversation.

"...am not _drunk_, Ron," Hermione giggled, in a most un-Hermione-ish way.

"Hermione, you're sloshed," Angelina said firmly. She was smiling almost _too_ brightly — Neville wondered if the Firewhisky had finally caught up with her, too.

"Hey, Neville!" Ron grinned. His face was a little red. "Where have you been? You missed McLaggen!"

George laughed loudly. "Hannah must have lost her temper with him and cursed him out of her kitchen! It was bloody brilliant! Remind me to thank her for that later!"

Neville tried to look innocent at this turn of conversation, but he wasn't certain he was pulling it off well. For one thing, he noticed Hermione's bright eyes watching him, and her silly smile faded slightly.

"Neville?" she asked suspiciously. "What _have_ you been up to, anyways?"

"Oh. Nothing." Neville blushed. "I just had to run upstairs for a second."

"A second that turned into twenty minutes?" George prodded. The maniacal glint that was so familiar flickered in his blue eyes.

But no one heard him, thankfully — Ron had just said loudly, "_I've never_... shagged Hermione on an... uh... what are those things? Aeroplane!" He threw back the shot, and Neville was forgotten in the laughter that followed. After a few minutes, Harry and Ginny reappeared and sat down beside Neville at the end of the booth, both looking completely normal.

"So what's been happening?" Harry asked, pouring up some Firewhisky.

"Hannah cursed McLaggen out of the kitchen!" Ron said cheerfully. "Put that Slug-Vomiting curse on him and banished him. Gwenog had him thrown out so the slugs wouldn't ruin the victory party! Things couldn't get any better, could they?"

Harry grinned. "Damn! I can't believe I missed that."

"Well," George said coolly. "If you hadn't been so busy shagging my baby sister, then you wouldn't have missed it."

"George?" Ginny mused, pouring her own shot of Firewhisky. "Do _shut up."_

Everyone laughed. Neville vaguely wondered how life could be so good; he was sitting at a table with a bunch of old friends, who were including him while they told jokes and got drunk after an incredible Quidditch match. And even better, there was a beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed girl who would be his after the party, if it would ever end. He hoped it would end _soon_.

Somewhere in the background, he heard a clock chime fifteen after midnight, but he hardly paid any attention to it. The drinking had slowly slacked off as another thirty minutes passed by — most people at other tables around them were slumped over or humming with dazed looks. Gwenog was sitting by one of the fireplaces, surrounded by a crowd of admirers, as she relived the game, play by play. Charlie had left, and a few other groups were slowly departing, debating on whether or not they would be able to Apparate effectively or if they should take the Floo instead.

At their own booth, Harry was recounting some of the crazy things he had been seeing at the Ministry that week as the group pushed their glasses to the center of the table to avoid any more liquor. Neville was so absorbed listening to a story about a near-sighed old wizard who had truly believed he'd seen Lord Voldemort in his backyard (Harry explained it turned out to be an old, dead tree) and reported it in a state of panic to the Auror office, that he didn't even hear the pub's front door open and shut.

Vaguely he heard Gwenog's voice say with slurred importance, "Excuse _me_, but this is a _private_ party!"

A few other Harpies fans chuckled at this. Neville glanced over his shoulder to see who could have wandered in after midnight, earning Gwenog's disapproval. He expected to see some traveler needing a room for the night and finding a party of drunken Harpies' fans slowly trying to become sober again, but to his utter shock, his _grandmother_ stood just inside the door, surveying the room with critical haughtiness.

For a few minutes, Neville could only stare at her, while his mind blanked. It made absolutely no sense. Then, his brain reeled. Something had gone wrong, _terribly wrong_, it must have. Why else would his grandmother be at the Leaky Cauldron in the early hours of the morning, wearing her best green coat and gloves? Was he so drunk that he was hallucinating? No... No, he hadn't had enough liquor for _that_, yet. Had she found out about this party, somehow? Was she coming to fetch him home, convinced that he'd had enough of living on his own? Perhaps she felt it was time he stopped goofing off and start working at the Ministry? He mouthed wordlessly, but the reasons could not form in his brain under such bizarre circumstances.

Ginny and Harry had seen Augusta Longbottom as well, and when Gwenog started to speak again, Ginny stood up quickly and cut her off, snarling, "_Gwenog_, _no_! She's..."

The pub fell silent. Augusta's eyes traveled to the crowded booth, seeking the source of the respectful tone, and Neville knew she would find him sitting there with the others, two empty bottles of Firewhisky on the table, amidst the shot glasses. It occurred to him how disappointing the scene must look to her beady eyes, and he felt the heat of shame creeping up the back of his neck, which annoyed him even more.

As Augusta's gaze slowly rested on her grandson, Neville stared back at her, determined not to back down. He heard the kitchen door open, and out of the corner of his line of vision, he saw Hannah walk up behind the bar.

"May I help you?" she asked tentatively.

Gran didn't answer, but continued to frown at Neville. He knew, rather than saw, Hannah's look of confusion when the newcomer didn't respond to her question.

How could he have been happy only two seconds ago? It was as though a dead weight had settled in his stomach — he was completely sober now, full of a strange fear he hadn't felt in a long, long time. Everyone was quiet; all eyes were on this regal woman, her weathered face set and proud, and her eyes sharp and narrowed. Harry was watching her without the slightest trace that he'd been drinking, and Hermione was gripping Ron's had tightly. It was, Neville thought, as if his friends knew that ill news was about to fall — his friends who knew truths about him that he had never shared with anyone willingly.

Harry stood up next to Ginny and said, "Mrs. Longbottom? Would you care to join us in one of the parlors? It would be more private, and we'd be honored —"

Her eyes slid from Neville to Harry, and she said imperiously, "Thank you, Mr. Potter. I appreciate the gesture. But no." Her gaze flickered back to her grandson. "I'm afraid I've just had an owl from St. Mungo's, you see. I came to find Neville as soon as I read it."

She paused, and for a brief second, Neville saw pity and sadness in his grandmother's eyes. His fingers suddenly went numb. Even before she said it, he knew, instinctively, he knew what was so very wrong. It had nothing to do with bringing him home, after all.

"Your father took a turn for the worst. They don't expect him to live through the night."


	7. At St Mungo's

**At St. Mungo's**

* * *

For a moment, Neville felt disorientated — as though he were fifteen again and he had just seen his friends in the closed ward at Christmas, his secret trickling through his fingers like water despite his attempts to contain it. The rush of fear was awful, but he mastered the urge to bolt from the room. He barely heard Ginny and Hermione's sharp intakes of breath, and was only dimly aware of Harry's body tensing beside him.

Gran's eyes narrowed on him when he didn't move immediately, and after a few seconds of silence she said sharply, "Algernon and Enid are already there. Time is of the essence, Neville."

"I don't understand," he stammered. His voice sounded distant and hollow. "What do you mean... a turn for the worst?" True, his parents weren't at their best anyways, but how much worse off could they be? He didn't want to think of the alternative; his stomach churched at the very idea.

Gran frowned. "I shall tell you when we arrive at St. Mungo's. Come."

When Neville still didn't move right away, she angrily added, "For God's sake, this is your _father_ we're talking about! I would never have believed that you would choose a party of drunken hooligans over your parents, Neville!"

"It isn't like that at all!" he said hotly. He stood up, not daring to look at anyone around him. He had heard the Quidditch fans' inward hisses of horror at being called 'drunken hooligans', and he couldn't bear to see his friends' stricken faces — Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny all knew the truth about his parents, and George and Angelina would no doubt look surprised or concerned. Worse would be to witness Hannah's expression of confusion and worry, for she knew nothing about this at all.

And to think! Only an hour previously, he had been in the kitchen alone with her, with the promise of a night full of fantasies coming true. It all seemed dashed to pieces now.

Gran's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Well it most certainly appears that way," she said, scowling and wrinkling her nose at a couple of glazed-looking wizards sitting beside Gwenog. "Now come, _please_. I have no idea how much time we have. We _must_ hurry."

Without thinking, Neville looked hopelessly at Hannah, almost desperately. She was staring at him, and he could see the panic in her blue eyes. At his glance, she hurried towards him. Before he realized it, she had gripped his hands tightly and said, "What are you waiting for? Your family needs you."

"But..."

"It's all right," she insisted knowingly.

For a brief, wild, insane second, he wanted to kiss her again, but another voice brought him back to his senses.

"We're right behind you, Neville," said Ron.

Neville looked around; Ron was standing, as was Hermione. Like Harry and Ginny, they both had firm, sober expressions — Ron especially looked resolute and stubborn, and ready to leave right then.

"No," Neville protested. It wasn't necessary for them to waste their time by coming to St. Mungo's when Gran was making it sound like a hopeless case. "You stay here, Ron... All of you. Enjoy the rest of the party."

Ginny's eyes were burning. "Absolutely not. We're going to come with you, Neville."

Hermione looked ready to cry. "All of us, Neville."

Hannah squeezed his hands, and he met her eyes again. She gave him a small smile. "You don't have to go through this alone, whatever it is. We're here for you."

"But you don't even know what the circumstances are," he whispered.

"No, but I know you'll tell me," she replied gently.

"_Neville_," Gran said again. She was looking from one person to the other, confused and annoyed at the delay.

"Hurry up!" Ginny urged.

Neville took a few steps, then turned and looked at them all. The other people in the pub didn't matter anymore — they were all silent now, even Gwenog. The only people who mattered were Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Hannah, and they were all supporting him. Even Hannah, who knew nothing of the truth yet, was asking no questions or complaining that Neville had never mentioned his parents to her. He looked back at his grandmother, and she beckoned him towards her.

Without any other comment, he followed in her wake as she turned and strode to the door. A quick glance behind him let him know that Hermione had gone to Hannah, and Ron waved him on to the door, while Harry conjured traveling cloaks.

The air outside was crisp and cold; Neville shivered and remembered that his own cloak was upstairs in his room. He didn't have the power to Summon it right now, though — he felt too anxious and worried. Gran turned sharply on the spot and vanished. With a sigh, he turned as well, squeezing himself into the compression and darkness, until suddenly he was breathing fresh air again, and looking up at the windows of the old department store with its faded, out-of-date mannequins.

How often had he seen these windows? he thought bitterly. How often had he scowled at these ugly mannequins, standing sullen and lonely, as Gran regally announced their visit? He closed his eyes to block the hideous dummies from his vision, hating their fake, glazed expressions and horrid old fashions, and he heard Gran's voice say, "Augusta Longbottom and Neville Longbottom, to see Frank and Alice Longbottom."

Without opening his eyes, Neville followed his grandmother through the cool glass, knowing on sheer instinct where the entrance was located. Once inside the hospital, he opened them, taking in the waiting room as he so often done before. Tonight, it was empty except for a witch and her little girl, who was glowing with an odd, bright pink light, her hair fanned all around her. The witch was calmly reading a magazine.

"Mrs. Longbottom." The welcome witch nodded towards them. "Healer Chetwin said you would be in this evening."

"Yes, thank you. He's expecting me."

Neville followed her through the door into the hall and upstairs. Despite the fact that he was much younger, he deliberately trudged behind, feeling much older than he really was. Gran, on the other hand, marched up the stairs with her back straight and her head high.

Sometimes, he had lain awake at night in his dormitory in Gryffindor Tower, thinking how unfair it was that he and Harry didn't have parents, while kids like Draco Malfoy did. Of course, Harry didn't have parents at all, but then, Neville felt as though anything was better than _this_. Even death. The torture of constantly seeing what an Unforgivable Curse could do to a human being...the torture of seeing two people so closely related to him, unable to recognize him as their son...it was truly unbearable at times. His mother and father would never know he loved Herbology, or that he had fought Death Eaters in the Battle of Hogwarts, or defied Voldemort just as they had done. There was the constant horror of knowing that before Bellatrix Lestrange had mercilessly destroyed her, Alice Longbottom had been a pretty, happy woman who shared his facial features...that Frank Longbottom had been a tall, proud man always smiling in the photographs Gran had on her mantel and sideboards. He sometimes thought he would have welcomed not having parents at all, to have been an orphan like Harry, and to be able to move _beyond_ the torture rather than live it day after day, year after year.

And now Gran was telling him that his father was not expected to live through this night.

_Live_.

It was such a short word, yet so intense and so powerful. Since the Battle of Hogwarts, he had thought about that word a lot — and its counterpart: _not living_, _death_. Neville privately felt that Frank had _not lived_ in years; that he had died in all but body the night the Death Eaters attacked them. And Neville shivered, not with cold, but with fear — fear of what life would be like without his parents. A life without coming to St. Mungo's several times during the year. He could hardly conceive such a thing.

Quietly, he finally managed to ask, "What happened, Gran?"

She paused on the next landing, waiting for him to reach her. She did not continue up the next flight — instead, she surveyed him before replying, "The Healers have always expected your parents to have early deaths; it is not unnatural when so much magical damage has been wrought by such spells as they were subjected to. This, you surely know." For a brief moment, Neville saw anger in her eyes, but it died quickly into sadness as she continued, "I am actually surprised it has not happened before now. I have been expecting it for several years. You've heard the Healers talk — your parents have lasted much longer than even they had calculated."

Neville remained silent. Speaking out, becoming angry or crying, these things would only make it worse. He would upset Gran for saying the million things in his head now, and she would be disappointed that he had been unable to remain strong during such a time. But how could you possibly _calculate_ the span of a life? Didn't war teach people that life _couldn't_ be calculated with numbers and figures and theories?

Gran sighed, turned, and headed up the next flight, and Neville slowly followed. This was the hardest flight — the next floor was for victims of permanent spell damage.

Healer Chetwin, a young man in his mid-thirties, was waiting for them outside the door they always entered. In a quiet voice, he explained to Gran that the hospital staff had erected a temporary wall between Frank and Alice and the rest of the room, to ensure better privacy under the tragic circumstances. It was easier to erect this new wall rather than hang up the curtains, which anyone could hear through, or try and move any of the patients, which were fragile under the best conditions. Only after explaining this did he usher them into the ward.

The other occupants were asleep. Neville could see the new paneled wall surrounding his parents; it reminded him horribly of a tomb. Uncle Algie and Aunt Enid were standing beside the entrance to this wall, and as Neville passed into it behind Gran, Algie gripped his shoulder and nodded encouragingly to him.

It didn't much help.

It was darker beyond the entrance; only one bauble illuminated the area of the two beds. His mother was sitting up, her large eyes almost translucent and pale, and her lower lip trembling. A thick woolen shawl had been placed around her thin shoulders. His father was lying on his back, his breathing shallow and his hair seemingly whiter, while Healer York stood beside him, waving her wand in small circles over him, a look of intense concentration on her face.

His grandmother stopped first at his mother's bed, and placed her hand on Alice's small, shaky white one. "There, there, Alice," she said in a gentle voice. "We're here, now."

However, Alice did not seem to hear her, but rather looked about searchingly for Neville. Her eyes seemed to flare like candles when she saw him. In a meek way, she beckoned him to her, and Neville shuffled over, feeling horribly more depressed than before. When he stopped at her side, she looked up at him with her sad expression, and then at his dad, her eyes starting to water.

"I know," he said. His voice was choked, barely audible. He knew his father was dying. But he didn't know if his mother understood or not. How did you explain _not living_ and _death_ to a person whose mind was so addled from spell damage?

Gran moved to Frank, and Healer York stopped her ministrations.

"We've done all we can, Mrs. Longbottom," she said, her voice brisk. "I'm afraid his vital signs are failing rapidly. His pulse is slowing and it's becoming much harder for him to breathe. Our spells are no longer working for revitalization or stabilization, and Healer Chetwin and I are of the opinion that perhaps now would be a good time to go ahead and say goodbye."

Gran nodded. "I understand. Thank you for what you have done thus far."

Healer York stepped around the bed towards the door. "I'll wait just outside — if you need me, please call." She inclined her head politely and disappeared, shutting the door behind her.

And as Gran gazed down at her dying son, Neville felt lonelier than he ever had in his entire life. It was painfully obvious that his father was finding it difficult to cling to _life_, if that's what one could call it, and beside him, Neville felt his mother grip his hand with cold fingers. She made a small whimpering sound.

Gran's gaze drifted towards Alice's pathetic one, then to Neville's ashen face.

"Come tell your father goodbye, Neville," she instructed, stepping to one side.

Neville started to move, but to his surprise, his mother held his fingers tightly and whimpered again. She looked scared, afraid for him to leave her side.

"I have to go see Dad now," he tried to explain in a quiet voice, but she shook her head.

Fortunately, Gran came over and gently disentangled Alice's fingers from Neville's. "Alice, dear, you can't keep Neville all to yourself you know," she said in a fake, bright voice. "You do want to see me too, don't you?"

Alice's mouth turned down in a pout as Gran gently patted her hand, and Neville walked to his father's bedside.

His father's eyes were closed; his fingers were slowly clenching and unclenching the sheets, and his teeth were gritted. Neville wondered why there was no spell to stop the pain — the pain his father felt, or the pain he, Neville, felt. He would almost welcome oblivion right now, almost welcome Bellatrix to cast a Killing Curse and end the horrible torture she had started. Neville closed his eyes, and after a moment, he heard his grandmother speak to him, as though she could read his mind.

"I cannot express how gratefully thankful I was when Molly Weasley killed that horrible woman."

Yes. He remembered. Mrs. Weasley's temper had reached breaking point when the insane Bellatrix had threatened to kill Ginny that day, during the battle. But still...

"That doesn't help Mum or Dad much though now, does it?" he asked bitterly.

"No. It does not."

He took his father's hand in his — it was shriveled and smaller than his, and Neville's fingers felt clumsy. Frank opened one eye, but Neville knew his father couldn't see anything; the iris was too glazed and wild. He squeezed the shivering fingers beneath his larger ones, but no words came out. How did you tell a man you _called_ father, but barely _knew_, goodbye forever?

Gran rose from Alice's side and came to take Frank's hand instead, and Neville moved for her. She deserved to be with her son — she had known him better than Neville ever had, for she had known him when he had been sane — and he went back to his mother, who was watching his father with a horrified, frightened look.

"It's all right, Mum," he mumbled, taking her hand.

But Alice seemed to know something was _not_ all right, and she tried to move, to stand up and go to the man beside her. Neville instinctively and gently pulled her back into her bed, and he could see the dampness on her cheeks. She shook her head at him, and tried to move again, but Neville said, "No. No, Mum."

This frustrated her, and she moaned plaintively while Frank struggled in silence.

Neville wondered how much more he could take before he threw up.

It was a huge relief when Uncle Algie stepped in, as if he knew he was needed, for he always seemed to know when he was. His face was grave and haggard, much unlike his usual cheerful self, and he put a hand on Neville's shoulder. Gran was too focused on her son to look at Algernon, and Neville squeezed his great-uncle's hand desperately for strength, while holding his mother's frail hand in his other.

* * *

The corridor was quiet. The only sound was a faint ticking — a clock somewhere down the hall, pushing minutes by: a dull reminder of the quickness of life.

The group huddled outside the door of the closed ward looked worse for wear — which probably had something to do with the effects of alcohol wearing off and hangovers creeping in.

Harry leaned against the wall, silent and pensive, his green eyes staring at nothing visible to the others while his hands clenched inside the pockets of his robe. Ginny leaned against him, her arm looped in his, her red hair trailing down her back, and her freckles standing out against her pale skin under the glow of the single, nearby bauble at the ceiling.

Ron was squatting on the floor, his shoulders were hunched and his hands were white and cold, draped over his knees. Hermione's fingers were in his hair, but completely still — her eyes were damp and red; she looked miserable.

George was so surly that no one wanted to be near him except Angelina; they were sitting together on the stairs that led to the tearoom. His fists were balled, and she was gently whispering things to him no one else could hear, while stroking his hair off his forehead.

Hannah, however, felt incredibly out of place. Everyone else here was with his or her significant other; hers — her new one by only a few short hours, was it? — was locked in the room beyond. She was lonely and nervous, afraid of what she would hear; afraid that Neville would tell her they couldn't possibly see each other now for some reason or another.

Ginny sniffed; Harry slid his arm around her shoulders without moving otherwise, and Angelina sighed heavily.

It was Hermione who finally, after a very, very long time, broke the silence. Timidly, she whispered, "Hannah?"

Hannah looked up. Hermione hesitated, and then asked, "Who banished Cormac out of the kitchen?"

Everyone turned to look at her, for this truly seemed the most random, ridiculous question to possibly ask at a time like this. But Hermione ignored the others, and continued to hold Hannah's gaze.

"I-I did," Hannah stammered, after a long pause. Her voice sounded quite small.

There was another pause, and Ron opened his mouth to say something, but Hermione gripped his hair slightly tighter. He made a little noise of pain, which she ignored as well, and she pressed, "Who cast the slug curse?"

Hannah was too nervous to look at anyone else but Hermione, who seemed to already know the answer. She finally whispered, "Neville did."

Her eyes instantly diverted to the floor, and she bit her lower lip. She heard the movements around her; Ron slowly stood up, and Harry pushed off the wall. Only George and Angelina did not move.

"Neville did?" Ron asked. He sounded confused. "Why would Neville cast the slug curse on McLaggen? I thought Hannah cast —"

"Oh, _Ron_," Hermione sighed.

"But I thought Neville went upstairs," Ron persisted, cutting her off.

"He lied, Ronnie," said George. His voice was dark and quiet, almost hoarse. "I knew it the second he said he went upstairs, he was lying."

"I'm afraid I knew it, too," Hermione admitted, but her voice was gentler than George's and she moved away from Ron to touch Hannah's shoulder.

Hannah managed to meet Hermione's eyes, and whispered, "Do you know? I love him. I have for a while now. Silly, isn't it?" She wiped her eyes quickly with her hand.

Hermione hugged her. "No, it's not silly at all. And I think...I think he loves you, too."

"What's wrong with his parents?" Hannah asked.

Ron turned to look up at Harry. "I don't get it. He's dating Hannah? But why didn't he tell us?"

"Ron, do be quiet for a moment." Ginny sighed. "Hermione, I think we should tell her. She needs to know. I know you'll think Neville should tell her, but he's a bit occupied at the moment."

Hermione squeezed Hannah's hand; her face was grave. "We found out by accident, so please don't think Neville was excluding you, because I don't think that was the case at all. He hasn't ever told anyone, to my knowledge. Harry actually found out from Professor Dumbledore, and the rest of us found out one Christmas, when we were in fifth year. We came to visit Mr. Weasley, you see. He'd been bit by Voldemort's snake and —"

"Hermione," Harry interrupted, though not unkindly. "That's not the important part."

"Oh, sorry! You're right, I'm just..." Hermione sighed and plowed on. "Anyways... Please don't let Neville know that we told you. I'm sure he'll tell you, when he's ready."

Hannah nodded, but Harry spoke before Hermione could.

"They were tortured," he said coldly. "Bellatrix Lestrange subjected them to the Cruciatus Curse after Voldemort vanished, after the first war. She was trying to find out where he was, and she and a few other Death Eaters thought that if they tortured Neville's parents long enough, they'd get some answers."

The curiosity that had been coiling in Hannah's brain for the past couple of hours turned instantly to horror.

Ginny said sadly, "It destroyed them. They weren't able to tell the Death Eaters anything. Or anyone else anything, for that matter."

"They don't even recognize their own son," Hermione whispered.

Hannah felt tears on her cheeks; she could hardly breath. She'd had no idea. None... She'd never quite put it together that Frank and Alice Longbottom, the Aurors tortured by Death Eaters, were Neville's parents.

Ginny sighed, leaning against Harry again. "Quite honestly, I don't know how he can remain so strong about it. He's braver than I could ever be, if it were my parents in there."

"He's strong about it," George said sullenly, "because he's a Gryffindor. That's just sort of what we do, isn't it? We're strong, even when we don't want to be, or even when we think we can't be. We do it anyways. That's why we were sorted into the house of bravery and courage."

Angelina gripped his fingers even tighter, and the others fell silent.

The minutes ticked on. Hannah felt drained and cold. It was a stark contrast to the hot kitchen at the Leaky Cauldron, being pressed into the wooden counter and desperately kissing Neville, savoring the heat of his mouth and hands on her body. She had been expecting the party to end, to take Susan's advice, and drag him upstairs to her quarters for the rest of the night. To wake up the next morning, tangled up in sheets with him, running her hands over his torso. Instead, she was at St. Mungo's, Elisabeth had remained behind at the Leaky Cauldron to manage it in her absence, and Neville's world was coming apart.

She instinctively thought of her own mother, killed by Death Eaters. Neville's family had been destroyed in much the same fashion, but Hannah felt his fate was perhaps worse than her own. His parents may be alive, but as Hermione had said, they didn't recognize Neville. Hannah wondered, with terror, how she could have faced seeing her mother, aged prematurely by Dark magic and evil, and know that her mother wouldn't be able to recognize her own child?

Hannah wrapped her arms around herself, scared of the very thought, and willed herself not to retch at the idea. Perhaps it was better that her mother had died fighting, rather than ending up in the state the Longbottoms were in. She wished she could run in and hold Neville — but this was _his_ family's grief, and it was not her place to interrupt their last moments with Neville's dying father. She wasn't a part of his family, after all.

She tried to busy herself by thinking of ways to comfort him, to let him know she too had experienced the tragedy the Death Eaters left in their wake. But she wasn't sure how to do it, or what to say to him that wouldn't sound trite. And in the meantime, two Healers went in and out of the ward, never speaking to those waiting silently and patiently in the hall, never offering any information.

It was nearly three in the morning when the closed ward door opened for the final time. Hannah lifted her weary eyes expecting to see one of the Healers, but this time, an elderly man and woman stepped out. The woman was not Neville's grandmother, and she barely took the time to cast a quick glance over the group assembled around the door waiting for news before she hurried down the stairs without speaking.

The man however, looked at them with curiosity, his eyes finally settling on Harry Potter.

"You must be some of Neville's friends," he said. His voice was tired, but Hannah could hear a hint of pleasantness in it, perhaps even gratefulness.

"Yes, we are," said Harry, stepping forward and extending his hand. "Is Neville all right, sir?"

The man shook Harry's hand briefly. "Harry Potter, isn't it? And what do you think?" he asked lightly, but his eyes were shrewd.

"What sort of question is that?" said Hermione, her voice slightly offended. "Of course he's not all right! We only want to do anything we can to help him, you know. Even if we can't take the pain away, we want him to know we're _here_...that we feel it, too!" Tears sprang to her eyes again. "We only want him to know that we've lost people we love, too, and that we know it _hurts_, and we _care_ about him!"

The man looked thoughtfully at Hermione for a long moment, before he rubbed his chin and smiled. "I always knew Neville was Sorted into the right House," he chuckled. "Gus used to wonder; thought he should have been in Hufflepuff, she did. But I knew after that first year, when he stood up to a few of the other students who were breaking some rules, that he'd been marked for the right spot. And so were you, Miss Granger," he added. "Sorted into the right house, I mean." A ghost of a smile flitted around the corners of his mouth. "You're absolutely right, he's _not_ all right. He never has been where his parents are concerned. Never wanted others to know, because he hated the pain of it all. I can't blame him. It must be awful to have had to see them during the holidays, knowing they could never recognize him for who he really was. I can't imagine it myself, and Frank's my nephew. I'm afraid I haven't introduced myself, have I? Algernon Longbottom — call me Algie, everyone does."

"You're Neville's Uncle Algie?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Expected a really _old_ man, did you?" said Algernon in a bemused tone. Then, more seriously he added, "Listen. Ignore Gus, whatever she may say to you all when she comes out and sees you. I'm personally glad you're here. Neville needs you. He needs you for all the reasons you just said, Miss Granger, and I'd be grateful if you let him know that." He smiled at them all, and then his gaze settled on Hannah. Algernon looked at her for a long time, before he walked to her and patted her shoulder.

"I think he might need _you_ more than the others, though. If you know what I mean."

Hannah felt her face heat up; across from her, Ron smirked in a knowing way.

Then, to the group as a whole, Algernon added, "I do hate to run out before I get the chance to know all of you more personally, but I'm afraid I must assist my wife. I think she's planning the obituary for the _Daily Prophet_ tomorrow morning, and she'll need my help, I'm sure." He nodded to them, and then turned and headed down the stairs.

* * *

Neville followed Gran out of the ward; his body felt like led, his brain was numb. At first, he looked about the corridor in confusion — why on earth was it so full of people? Then it dawned on him who these people were, and before he could say anything, Ginny had stepped forward and hugged him tightly. Hannah and Hermione did the same; Hannah released him very quickly, more quickly than he would have liked, and before he could pull her back to him, Harry had shaken his hand and Ron had clapped him on the shoulder. Angelina made her way up to give him a hug as well, but George said nothing; he only nodded to Neville quietly as he stood up from the stairs.

When he glanced at his grandmother, it was to find that her brows had knitted together, and after a long, awkward silence, she said suspiciously, "What is going on, here?"

"Uh... We, er, came for Neville," Ron said awkwardly.

"Because we know," Hermione stammered. "We know..." Her voice trailed off under Mrs. Longbottom's sharp gaze, as she tried to find the right words.

To everyone's surprise, George finished her sentence. "Because we know what it feels like to lose someone important," he said clearly, but quietly.

Everyone turned to stare at him. His blue eyes were clouded, and he seemed to look into the distance, away from everyone.

Gran's voice was bewildered, if not a tad scoffing. "You came up here in the middle of the night just to wait for Neville?"

"Yes." Ginny met her eyes without the slightest trace of fear. "We did. We may not have been able to do anything about your son and daughter-in-law, Mrs. Longbottom, but we're Neville's _friends_. And we wanted him to know that we care about _him_, if nothing else."

An odd feeling of relief swept over Neville at her words. They had come to make sure he was okay? He smiled shyly at them, before he hugged Ginny again. "Thank you," he whispered. "I really appreciate it. I do."

Gran remained silent, her expression unreadable. Neville glanced at her, but she seemed to be deep in thought, so he stepped up to George. For a moment, George continued staring at a blank spot on the wall, and finally refocused with obvious effort.

He'd never really known George in school, but there was something there now... _something_, as with Oliver, that made them closer than words explained. And so Neville quietly said, "Thank you."

George nodded, but did not speak.

Finally, Neville turned to Hannah. She was standing away from the others, looking out of place with a long, dark blue cloak over her bar dress, her blonde curls coming loose from the ribbon that held them back. But at that moment, she looked even more beautiful than she had in the kitchen when she had been hot and sweaty and eager for him. He stepped up to her and took her hands with his, and whispered, "Thank you for coming here when you don't even know..." He trailed off. He would have to explain it all to her, but not now.

She whispered back, "I wouldn't leave you now, you know."

Harry coughed, and Neville glanced over his shoulder. His grandmother was staring at them.

There was another long, awkward pause, before Neville mumbled, "Listen, why don't you all go downstairs? I'll catch up with you in a minute, okay?"

Hermione nodded, and took Ron's hand. She squeezed Neville's arm as she passed him, and Harry, Ginny, George, Angelina, and Hannah followed, trooping down the stairs together.

Hannah glanced longingly over her shoulder at Neville, her face pale and worried. He smiled gently at her, indicating for her to go with the others. With a small nod, Hannah did as he wished. It was hard for him to watch his source of comfort leave, but he needed a few minutes alone with Gran. When their footsteps finally faded away, Neville looked at her, waiting for her reaction.

Seconds slipped by in the quiet, dark hall as they gazed at each other, but after a long moment, Gran seemed to pull herself together, and she murmured, "Those are quite some friends you have."

"Not exactly the drunken hooligans you envisioned, are they?" Neville smiled just a bit, and to his relief, Gran smiled back, though rather exhausted.

"No. They are not. Do forgive your old Gran, won't you? They are friends to be proud of. They are worthy of your friendship, and strong people, able to help shoulder great burdens. They care deeply for you."

"Yes." Neville's heart suddenly felt lighter, and he sighed deeply. "They do."

She touched his shoulder as she started to move past him. "I think it is time...that you move into the future. The past is no longer what's most important in your life. A little fun is necessary now and again, too. Unfortunate, of course, that I should have had to walk in on it at that precise moment, earlier."

For a moment, he stared at her. Move into the future? It was such a powerful notion, a little scary, and at the same time, somewhat relieving.

"But what about you?" he said tentatively.

"I am an old woman, Neville. I have a while yet, but I'm not young, either. But you... oh, you have years. Decades. And it's time for you to move forward. Your friends will help you more so than I ever could." She patted his shoulder. "I trust them. Gryffindors, the lot of them, aren't they?"

He paused. "Except for one."

"Well, not everyone's _perfect_," Gran chuckled with a slight smile, patting him on the shoulder as she moved towards the stairs. "But she is _very_ pretty and she seems quite nice, so I'd say that rather makes up for it."

And he stood there, quiet and reflective, while she went back downstairs — even though she had just been joking slightly, he noticed that her shoulders were more hunched, that she wasn't quite so tall and proud, but saddened by grief. Even the small jest couldn't take away the despair of the previous few hours.


	8. The Funeral

**Author's Note:** The flower scene in this chapter was one of those scenes that was in my head from the very beginning, before I even wrote the story. It was a lot of fun to write, especially George.

* * *

**The Funeral**

* * *

Despite the tragedy of the present situation, Hannah felt she had never seen a more happily situated church. It was a narrow building, but tall — centuries old, with moss and lichen creeping along the gray stones. The steeple was high, and she could see an old bell, motionless within. Tall trees grew all around, secluding the roof and the grounds with deep shade — as though this were a secret world, surrounded by wrought iron fences and separated from everything else. It was as pretty as the church in Godric's Hollow, where her mother was buried. But Hannah wondered, despite the beauty, when this little church had last seen such an unhappy, devastating affair.

Deep within the graveyard, she could see Neville standing beside his grandmother, both of whom were wearing black dress robes. His extended family stood to one side, and two graves were waiting to be filled. The only sound was silence, broken by the occasional, muffled sniff of someone in the crowd.

Hannah had expected it to be raining. At her own mother's funeral, there had been sleet, which matched Hannah's cold, bitter depression and slight denial. But today, the sun was pale, the air was cold and crisp, and the leaves were an array of autumn color. It didn't seem the right sort of weather for a double funeral.

Her eyes rested on Neville's strong back, wishing he could sense her gaze. She wanted to try and will some of her strength to him, if she could. Because after his father had passed away, and he and his grandmother had left St. Mungo's, they had been called back within a few short hours. It had seemed that Alice Longbottom had become lost and was utterly destroyed when her husband's body was removed from the bed beside hers, and in a fit of passionate grief, she had also passed away. The staff had found her sprawled over Frank Longbottom's empty bed, lifeless. Perhaps she hadn't known the man who had been her bed companion for so many years was really her husband, but she had obviously felt it would be impossible to continue living without someone there, lying next to her. Hannah had received an owl that morning from Neville, clumsily scrawled, barely readable, with a few splotches suspiciously similar to tearstains, explaining the unexpected and that he would be with his family for a few days.

Of course he needed to be with his family! She would have been angry with him had he returned to the Leaky Cauldron. But regardless, she had been lonely and sad without him near. She had grown so accustomed to his presence in the inn the past few months. In a way, he had been giving her the strength she needed to run the inn and manage her life — strength her mother would have given to her if she were alive. Neville had unknowingly filled the void, which was much a surprise to her as the fact that he was in love with her. She wasn't certain how she'd managed for six months before he showed up, though she knew she had, somehow.

She stood just outside the gate to the graveyard, surrounded by all of his other friends — Harry and Ginny, Ron and Hermione, Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan, George and Angelina, the Weasley family, Luna and her boyfriend, Rolf. Behind them, in front of the church and into the small grassy area beyond, stood a hundred other people — other former Hogwarts students: Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, Ernie and Susan, Oliver Wood... Not to mention Ministry officials, Aurors, the Minister of Magic himself, and countless wizards and witches who were just faces in a crowd. Frank and Alice Longbottom's deaths had been monumental to the wizarding community, because their torture and resulting insanity had sparked a wave of shock all those years ago, and they had been popular. It was only expected that their deaths would be equally as huge.

But Hannah wished it _weren't_ so huge. Neville didn't deserve hundreds of people he didn't know offering condolences they wouldn't remember in two days' time, or having to hear people say what a tragedy his parents' deaths was, when the Longbottoms had been in a closed ward for years, insane and mindless.

The official presiding was murmuring something only Neville and his family could hear. Hannah sighed deeply and shifted, her long dark dress robes rustling in the soft autumn breeze. The graveyard was void of any flowers, save for a few wilted and faded faux arrangements that had barely survived the hot summer.

Hannah shifted her gaze back to Neville, wishing there was something she could do.

* * *

Beside him, Gran stood tall, proud, regal, but grieved. He hardly looked at her, though. She was the matriarch, the one who would gracefully receive the sorrowful wishes from the crowd when they filed by, and all with propriety, placid calmness, and perfect etiquette — she was the one who would attract the most attention, because she had been Frank's mother.

On the other hand, _he_ had no intention of saying anything to anyone if he could help it — he had already made his mind up about that. The majority of the wizards and witches who had turned out for the funeral were unknown to him. He suspected they had only appeared because his Aunt Enid had taken out half a page of the _Daily Prophet_ to woefully announce to the entire British wizarding community that the incredible, popular, talented Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom had finally passed away as a result of Dark magic wrought on their bodies and minds by Death Eaters some eighteen years previously. He was unsure how meaningful it would be to have someone he'd never met tell him how tragic the deaths of his parents were, and how they knew how much he was suffering at that moment.

_They can't possibly know_, he thought with slight contempt. Those people he had never met would have no idea what emotions were coursing in his veins, and he certainly didn't want to tell anyone, not even Gran, of the huge weight that had fallen from his shoulders when the Healers contacted them to say his mother had passed away as well. For the first time in years, he had felt unexplainably free, and that was almost as frightening as anything else. He loved his parents dearly, but they were finally at peace now — together, as they had always been. One had not remained behind when the other went. And as Gran had said: it was time he moved forward. The funeral was to place his parents' bodies in the ground, but it was also the end of part of _his_ life, and a part of him was being buried, too. Part of him was going into the ground with his mum and dad, and the blessed start of another part of his life was just beginning.

Behind him, he could feel someone watching him — one person amongst a crowd of hundreds — with intensity that made him shiver. It was that person he wanted to see. Only that person might understand if he said he felt relieved at his parents' deaths, because she had lost her mother to Death Eaters, too. Neville stole a quick glance over his shoulder, seeking the blue eyes, but they were far away and in shadow. However, the sunlight and breeze were playing amazing tricks with her long hair, making it glow a pale, glittering yellow. Beside her were those few others who meant something to him, who truly knew what he was feeling — real friends who had experienced the terrible grief of death so very recently, within the past few years. Indistinctly, he could make out Harry's messy dark hair, tousled more from wind this morning than it usually was; Ginny's long mane of wild red; and Ron's tall, lanky figure leaning hunched on the iron fence. Hermione's brown hair was pulled back into a bun, Luna's straggly platinum hair had become tangled by the breeze, and Seamus and Dean stood together behind this group, looking grave and somber.

Neville quickly looked back to the holes in the ground, in which the coffins were already resting, before Gran noticed his inattention and could made a soft _tch_ noise at him. He vaguely wondered how much longer the official would continue speaking — he hadn't heard any meaning in it, but only caught snatches and bits.

All he really wanted to do was to go to his friends and thank them for being there for him.

* * *

Hannah noticed that Ginny's lower lip was trembling slightly. She was also squeezing Harry's arm with her fingers, her neat, short nails digging into his dress robes. He finally leaned down to her, which was apparently exactly what Ginny wanted.

"He's so miserable," Ginny whispered, her voice audible enough for Hannah to hear. It seemed there was a lot more she wished to say, but she did not continue.

Harry, on the other hand, said nothing. Perhaps Ginny hadn't expected an answer from him — but Hannah leaned over to her and said quietly, "I wish we could do something for him."

Ginny nodded fervently in agreement, but before Hannah could make a suggestion, she realized that their brief, quiet exchange had not gone unnoticed. Somewhere behind them, a witch hissed, "Do be quiet, this is a funeral!" in scandalized tones.

George started to turn and open his mouth to make a retort, but Angelina stepped on his foot from beneath her robes before he could say something nasty to the woman and get them all in more trouble.

Ginny, on the other hand, glared at the lady, who was elderly and pompous in rich velveteen robes and faux furs, before turning to Hannah again and saying in a slightly louder voice, "It's so bare, isn't it? You'd think they could have at least placed some flowers around."

Mrs. Weasley glared down the line at Ginny; the old woman behind them had thrown her hands up and made a small wail of complaint at this second, louder comment.

"At least something to cheer the place up a bit..." Ginny continued, as if only as if to defy the lady behind her.

Hannah felt heat creeping up her neck — this statement had earned several snarls from the crowd, and Harry, who had had quite enough, turned to scowl at them. All that was needed to end their criticism was his expression; several wizards and witches gaped at him, realizing how close they were to _the_ Harry Potter, _the Chosen One_, and they fell silent, without another word to Ginny about her being disrespectful or noisy.

"Flowers..." Ginny murmured again, her brow creasing slightly, as though in thought.

The official lifted his hands, finishing his service by saying some general words that no one heard over the breeze.

Hannah glanced at Ginny again, and realized the younger girl's eyes had widened. She had turned back to Harry and said, "Flowers."

"Gin," he hissed, "You've already incited half the people behind you to riot; I'm not really prepared to battle it out with them if you keep trying to annoy them further."

"No." Ginny tugged on his sleeve again, and whispered, "_Flowers_. We can give Neville flowers. They're his favorite thing, because he loves Herbology! And this _is_ a funeral!"

Hannah gasped softly. "Oh, Ginny! That's brilliant!"

The service officially ended at this moment; the mounds of dirt beside the graves were magically lifted and then gently lowered into the holes, settling perfectly in place.

As people bowed their heads respectfully for a final prayer, Ginny nodded to Hannah, slipped her wand from beneath her robes, and let it roll between her fingers. From the end slid beautiful, tiny yellow buttercups, which crept along the ground through the graves, forming a soft, silent carpet that made its way towards Neville.

Hannah eagerly followed her example, and from the end of her wand burst yellow daisies that joined Ginny's buttercups, weaving in and out of them, dancing in the breeze. Ginny flashed her a bright smile before she nudged Harry, who suddenly looked as if he didn't have the faintest idea what a wand was, let alone how to use it.

Hermione, on the other hand, was staring at the flowers, transfixed. Several witches and wizards behind them had completely forgotten Harry's sour look from moments before, and were complaining under their breath about how utterly disrespectful this group of young wizards and witches were. Quite possibly, it was these comments that made Hermione straighten her back, lift her chin, and gracefully twirl her wand. With a cool look at those behind her, she sent a spiraling cascade of wild, pink roses through the iron railing, twisting into the graveyard with grace and agility.

Angelina was one step ahead of her — she had already cast a spray of soft violets popping up over the ground to join the thicker rivers of flowers winding their way towards Neville, along with dancing, delicate cosmos that burst from Luna's wand.

Harry and Ron shifted; flowers were very girly, it seemed, but after a few seconds Harry sighed and tried not to look at Ginny's stern expression. He gave his wand a jerky little movement, and from the end came bright red begonias — the first flower that came to his mind, likely from years of pulling weeds from between them in Aunt Petunia's garden. Ron sheepishly followed Harry's example and did a decidedly complicated wand movement — perhaps he meant for something small and dainty to come out to impress Hermione, but instead, a large blackberry bush began to trail from the tip of his wand, twisting around the fence with small white flowers and accompanying thorns. Ron's expression turned to horror as the bush hastily raced along across the grounds, and Hermione quickly hissed, "_Finite_!" to put a stop to the damage before it covered the entire railing.

Ron's ears turned bright red. Behind him, Seamus and Dean had stuffed their fists in their mouths to keep from laughing. George was snickering as well, while he lazily twitched his wand. Instantly, a sudden spray of honking daffodils sprung up amongst the rest.

The noise of the daffodils was completely unexpected, and caused an outbreak of angry, mutinous muttering throughout the entire crowd behind them. Angelina looked wholly embarrassed and hid her face in her hands, while Mrs. Weasley sputtered incoherently and cast a Silencing Charm on the flowers. George turned an innocent face to her, which deceived no one, least of all his mother, who looked absolutely murderous.

But the sound created the disturbance George had so desired, and Neville and his grandmother both turned to find out what on earth was going on. Mrs. Longbottom had looked quite shocked as the daffodils blurted out noisy honks before they were Silenced, but Neville stared in surprise at the flowers that had managed to creep to his feet, now in a dazzling array of color. He slowly knelt and brushed his palm along them: the impish buttercups, the sweet country roses, the red begonias, the slender cosmos, the off-whites of the blackberry flowers with their large thorns (Hannah saw Neville bite back a laugh — Ron was _still_ bright red around the ears), the tiny violets, the daffodils that kept moving their petals open and closed from which no sound emitted...and the bright daisies, taller than the rest, almost nudging his fingers.

* * *

An overwhelming emotion seared through Neville's heart. At this moment, right then, surrounded by flowers that were slowly creeping over his parents' graves, given by friends, he felt as though he were the richest person in the world. He slowly picked one of each before he stood back up. When he looked at his grandmother, it was as though she weren't sure whether to lose her temper or smile, but he couldn't help grinning at her.

Still, they had no time to discuss the flowers — people were starting to file past, brushing by the young ruffians as they marched into the cemetery to bow to the grieving family and wring their hands, expressing their deepest sorrows and sympathies. Neville watched in concern as some came dangerously close to crushing the flowers, but it seemed as though most people wanted to stay far from them. A few even told his grandmother how terribly sorry they were that such disrespectful people had dared to come to the funeral of Frank and Alice Longbottom. Gran's lips merely twitched, but Neville noticed that she never agreed with these snobbish elitists.

At the end of the long line of mourners was Kingsley Shacklebolt, and it was very obvious that he was trying _desperately_ hard not to smile.

"Mrs. Longbottom," he said formally. "My deepest sympathies to you and your family. These are two people that our world shall never forget. I remember them well and miss them terribly."

"Thank you, sir," she said, taking the Minister's hand with her own. He clasped it firmly, and then glanced at the flowers around his feet. His lips finally curved upwards.

"Begonias." His voice was distinctly bemused. "He'll be teased dreadfully about that come Monday morning in the office."

"What?" Gran looked confused.

Kingsley Shacklebolt merely waved his hand airily. "Nothing, Mrs. Longbottom — nothing at all." He smiled at Neville. "You have some very caring friends, it seems."

Gran glanced at Neville, her eyes narrowed, but not in anger. "I think, Minister, that you are correct," she said after a long pause.

The Minister of Magic inclined his head, then turned and walked a few paces beyond the back gate of the cemetery, where he twisted and vanished along with his waiting entourage.

At last, Neville's friends approached. First were Lavender and Parvati, who hugged Neville briefly before moving on; then Dean and Seamus, who shook his hand and nodded solemnly before following the girls through the back gate.

Mrs. Weasley came forward, and instantly apologized to Mrs. Longbottom, begging forgiveness for her unruly children, George in particular, who seemed determined to wreck havoc wherever he went, without the slightest thought of anyone else's feelings. She'd kill him herself, she would, and make no mistake about it!

To Neville's surprise, his grandmother merely said, "No havoc was wrecked in the least. It was a very kind gesture, Mrs. Weasley — Neville is very grateful. Your son, George, is a very caring young man, I daresay."

Mrs. Weasley looked as though she had no idea what to say to this, and George gave her a sickeningly sweet smile that she did not return.

"Thank you," mumbled Neville, glancing at his friends. "I mean it. That...that was the most wonderful thing anyone has ever done for me, and..." His voice trailed off; he felt slightly embarrassed.

Hermione quickly stepped forward. "They'll fade, I'm afraid," she said sadly. "They're only magical flowers, and it is cold out. But..." Her brow furrowed slightly; she drew her wand and waved it in a complicated movement over the flowers that Neville held in his hand. They trembled slightly as if a soft breeze had touched them. Hermione smiled gently at him and said, "If I cast it right, those should last."

"For how long?"

"As long as you keep them, I expect. It's a tricky little charm, but I'm sure I got it right. I ran across it while reading _Olde Charmes from Olden Tymes_. It really has some of the most interesting spells. You_ will_ let us know if you need us, won't you?" she added.

Neville nodded.

"Take care," said Ron quietly, shaking Neville's hand once Hermione had released it. "I expect we'll all see you soon."

"I will, thanks."

Ron and Hermione wrapped their arms around each other's waists and headed for the back gate.

Ginny hugged Neville next. "We're here for you too, if you need us. Just send an owl to Harry."

"He can send an owl to you, too," Harry retorted lightly, shaking Neville's hand.

As Harry and Ginny moved on, Angelina walked up and patted his shoulder. George winked at him, and opened his mouth several times to imitate the daffodils. For a split second, Neville _almost_ laughed, but the sudden thought of Fred's lack of presence made the humor disappear instantly. How on earth could George joke at a _funeral_? It was beyond Neville's comprehension, and he didn't have a chance to ask — George and Angelina had already moved on.

As Neville gazed after them, suddenly more distraught for George than himself, Luna stopped in front of him and took his hands in hers.

"The dead are never forgotten," she said solemnly. "We've always loved them and we always will. But they want us to live on and move forward. After all — they have moved on themselves."

Neville shifted — Luna always had a knack for saying the most uncomfortable, but completely truthful things. Rolf touched his forehead in a salute as he followed his girlfriend through the cemetery after George and Angelina.

Mrs. Weasley bid a final farewell to Mrs. Longbottom before she, her husband, and Bill and Fleur followed the rest, and Neville realized that Hannah was the only remaining person in the cemetery aside from his family.

She cast a terrified glance at Mrs. Longbottom before she stepped forward and hugged Neville. However, he wasn't concerned about what Gran would think; he wrapped his arms around her, and returned the hug.

Hannah whispered, "I'm so sorry. Let me know if I can do anything. You will, won't you?"

"Yes," he said, drawing back to look at her face. "I promise."

Hannah nodded, and slowly pulled away. Once Neville released her, though quite reluctantly, she quickly hurried out of the cemetery, through the gate at the back, and twisted, vanishing into nothingness.

Neville gazed at the spot where Hannah had disappeared, suddenly immune to the chilly wind now cutting through the gravestones. How he desperately wanted to follow her, and knew he couldn't — not yet. Perhaps his grandmother realized his intentions, because she placed a hand on his arm and said softly, "Let's go home, Neville."

With some difficultly, Neville tore his eyes from the gate, and glanced back at his extended family. They were all watching him curiously. He nodded to Gran, and they walked to the gate together. Neville Apparated, and when he reappeared, he was standing outside his grandmother's home, with its quaint, country garden and beautifully detailed woodwork around the deep Victorian porch. Gran was already walking up the path, talking in a quiet voice to Algernon and Enid.

Neville followed, but he found that he didn't really want to be here. He glanced over his shoulder at the lane — bordered by tall hedgerows and twisting, flowering vines. He wanted to go for a walk, to nowhere, perhaps, and just sit and think.

But Gran wouldn't have it.

"Neville? Come inside and have some tea."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm coming." He sighed, and turned back to the house, following the familiar path through the garden.

When he opened the door and stepped into the kitchen, Uncle Algie and Aunt Enid were already sitting at the table, and Gran was pouring tea.

"I'm positive some people will drop by," Enid was saying importantly. She accepted her cup of tea from Augusta. "Several of the guests made hints of it to me as they left. I do hope Bessie Hanford drops in — I would love some of her toffee cakes. She always had a secret ingredient —"

"Gin, no doubt," Algie muttered under his breath.

"...and they taste so much better than Vera Plunkett's toffee cakes. If _she_ stops by I suggest we feed hers to the owls. Her baking is always dry."

Gran handed Neville a cup, and Neville sat beside Uncle Algie, who looked bored.

"It isn't the cake that matters, Enid," said Gran. "It's the thought."

"Everyone was quite thoughtful, weren't they?" Enid said, picking up on this topic warmly. "Everyone except that one Weasley boy. Oh, I forget his name — the twin. The one who _didn't_ die in the war, I mean."

Neville stiffened angrily, and before his grandmother could speak, he responded in a curt tone, "His name is George. And he was being thoughtful, too."

"Honking daffodils are _not_ thoughtful," Enid replied, scowling at him. "_Disrespectful_, perhaps, but —"

"They _were_ thoughtful. George wanted me to cheer up. That's what he _does_. He tries to cheer people up with jokes and laughter. And it's really hard for him these days, because he and Fred did everything together, and it hurt him a lot worse to lose his twin brother and best friend in the war than it hurt me to lose my parents years after they were tortured into insanity."

The table fell into stunned silence. Enid looked highly affronted, and Algernon had a curious, interested expression on his face. Gran frowned, but again, it did not appear to be in anger.

Something inside Neville bubbled over; he couldn't explain why he suddenly felt so horrible for George, but he couldn't bear his aunt saying these things in such a flippant way. He just knew that even though George was able to mention Fred in conversation and make jokes, it was still as if a hole had been carved in him that would never heal. Just because he was good at hiding it, didn't mean it wasn't there.

"And Fred didn't just _die_," he went on bitterly, as he thought of this monstrous, raw, everlasting hole that George would bear throughout the rest of his life. "A Death Eater killed him in the Battle of Hogwarts. Knocked a great block of masonry on top of him and just _killed_ him. You weren't there — _you_ didn't see George sobbing over Fred's body in the Great Hall when it was brought down with the others who died. But _I_ did. Fred was half of George! They were always together —"

"Running that dangerous joke shop," Aunt Enid tried to cut in furiousy.

"That joke shop," said Neville, through gritted teeth, "is absolutely _brilliant_."

Gran held up her hand quickly. Enid and Neville fell silent. But to Neville's surprise, his grandmother wasn't angry with him.

"Enid, Neville's friends have been extremely kind to him these past few days. True, the daffodils were a bit...overkill, perhaps...but they all wanted to express their sorrow and sympathy. Even George."

"And if you want my opinion," said Uncle Algie stubbornly, "I think Frank and Alice would have _liked_ the honkers."

"_Algernon_!" Enid looked horrified.

"Well, they would have. Alice loved flowers and Frank loved a good joke. He'd have thought George had the right idea. Everyone else was just stuffy and snobbish."

"It was a _funeral_! It isn't _supposed_ to be funny!"

Gran took a sip of tea. "I'm inclined to agree with Algernon; Alice and Frank would have appreciated the daffodils for being out of place. But that is beside the point at the moment, Enid." She placed the cup in its saucer, and turned to her grandson. "I've been contemplating something a good bit the past few days, actually — regarding your friends. Neville, I think it's best if you return to the Leaky Cauldron to stay for a while longer."

Enid gasped. "Augusta! Surely you don't mean that! First honking daffodils at a respectable funeral and now you want Neville to return to living above a _pub_?"

Neville's brow furrowed as he met Gran's thoughtful expression. "Gran?" he asked tentatively.

"You are near your friends there. And near Miss Abbott, too."

Oh, _bugger_. Neville opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Uncle Algie's face broke into a grin, as if _this_ were the topic he were most interested in, and not the toffee cakes or honking daffodils. "She is a pretty thing, isn't she?"

"She's not a _thing_, she's a young woman," Neville began, but Aunt Enid cut him off.

"Abbott... Old family name, I believe? From Godric's Hollow? Not wealthy, but comfortable, I believe?"

"I should hardly think her social status matters," Gran said patiently. Neville felt a surge of pride in her.

"Well, I wouldn't want him marrying a _Muggle_," protested Aunt Enid.

"She _isn't_ a Muggle," said Uncle Algie.

"No, but she's a barmaid, which is almost as bad."

Perhaps Augusta saw the heat flush in Neville's face, because she said, "_Enid_. She's the landlady at the Leaky Cauldron — an old, well-known establishment. She is hardly a _barmaid_."

Enid started to grumble, but Algernon spoke up before she could formulate a counter-argument.

"I think she's perfect for you, Nev."

Neville buried his face in his hands. "This isn't the discussion I want to have right now," he mumbled.

"No, but we're having it," said Uncle Algie cheerfully. "You're head over heels for her, aren't you?"

"I didn't think you liked the idea of me living over an _alcoholic establishment_," said Neville, frowning at his grandmother and ignoring his uncle. He remembered her words when he'd first suggested staying at the pub until he could find the flat he'd never found. She hadn't seemed so keen on it just a few months ago.

"Pack your clothes," said Gran gently, touching his arm. "And go back to the Leaky Cauldron."

Neville hesitated, glancing at her from between his fingers.

Algernon smiled and said, "We did just fine while you were at school, you know. And we'll be fine while you're at the Leaky Cauldron. Shacking up with —"

Cutting his uncle off very quickly, Neville said, "But Mum and Dad just died. You need me here."

"And you need to _live_. The war is over. There is no reason for you to stay here, while your life flies by, helping three old people who can easily handle themselves," Gran answered. "I'm not decrepit, you know."

"Neville, you _aren't_...what was it, Algernon? _Shacking_? Is _that_ what they call it these days?" said Enid, her voice high-pitched with horror.

"Do I have to go right now? There may be toffee cake later." Neville's voice was hopeful. He refused to answer his aunt, too.

Right after he asked the question, there was a sudden, polite tap at the door. Enid quickly rose to answer it, forgetting about Neville and Hannah. A moment later, they could hear her simpering to Mrs. Hanford and thanking her profusely for the delicious toffee cakes she had brought to them.

Gran smiled, and Algernon rolled his eyes at his wife's prattling. Neville decided he could wait a few hours before returning to the Leaky Cauldron, and at least help his family eat the food that would be pouring in throughout the day, and clean up the messy dishes. If, of course, they didn't bring his love life up again. Besides, a few hours weren't going to change the rest of his life _that_ drastically, he thought with a small smile. Hannah would still be there when he got back to the Leaky Cauldron, waiting for him.


End file.
